


Lonely souls

by dustbunnyprophet



Series: Souls [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Denial, Did I Mention Angst?, F/M, Female Ori, Fluff and Angst, Genderbending, Mentions of Injuries, Overthinking, Past Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, So much denial, a bit of a slowburn but hopefully not for long, communication issues, like seriously overthinking and jumping to conclusions, mentions of past violence, they will eventually be happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 17:30:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 98,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3863302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbunnyprophet/pseuds/dustbunnyprophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had long known there was something inherently wrong with his mind. For the entirety of his thirty-three years of life he had harboured thoughts and "memories" which were not his. He would find himself reminiscing people he never met, conversations he never had.</p><p>She had always known who she was and who she had been. Her whole life revolved around her memories as she dedicated herself to painstakingly cataloguing them. </p><p>Thorin struggled to forget, Ori to remember. A chance encounter makes their worlds collide and silently their lives begin to coil around one another, weaving something none of them expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Walk the memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chance encounter.

He pushed the restaurant door open and stepped on the pavement, pausing to look at his sister's retreating form. Harriet's shoulders were rigid under the blue tailored jacket while she motioned to the taxi driver. A light breeze made her dirty blond hair spill from the tight bun at the nape of her neck. Her bony hand promptly flicked it away from her face and John could picture the look of annoyance in her blue eyes, the slight sneer of her carefully painted lips.

He smiled morosely before turning and walking away in the opposite direction. It was a long walk from the posh restaurant Harriet had chosen to the hotel he was staying in, but John needed to clear his head. The dinner with his elder sibling had been nothing short of excruciating.

Ever since their mother's death his sister and him had drifted further apart until nothing but an ingrained sense of fraternal duty for duty's sake remained. He supposed he was to blame himself the most. Despite Harriet's difficult personality he knew it were his own shortcomings as a brother and a person that had irrevocably ripped their bond, sinew by sinew. It came down to seeing one another twice a year more or less - although now that he was back in England for good it _was_ possible to meet more often. But they didn't. They would talk over the phone when the occasion commanded it and send one another perfunctory gifts for they respective birthdays. It was the interaction of two unwilling parties, with Harriet's voice and posture ever holding an undercurrent of contempt for him. A contempt he could hardly begrudge her, no matter how irksome he found it.

It was altogether better than pity. Harriet might have thought him a maladaptive unsociable specimen of war veteran, but John preferred it to the alternative. To the truth.

He sighed, running his fingers through his short hair. He had long known there was something inherently wrong with his mind. For the entirety of his thirty-three years of life he had - his _mind_ had - harboured thoughts and "memories" which were not his. He would find himself reminiscing people he never met, conversations he never had - and oh how completely surreal they were while at the same time devoid of the dreamlike quality daydreams and fantasies had. They were not bi-dimensional and focused solely on the main details while the rest faded into oblivion of synapses and brain receptors uncaring of the superfluous. No, these _delusions_ were all-encompassing both in space and sensations, no different from real memories in anything other than their sheer _impossibility._ It had taken and it still took all of his willpower to remember they were just fabrications of his unsound mind and in no way real. Yet they felt real. John could hear the echoes of voices in his ears, ones that were painfully familiar and others that he couldn't quite put a name on. He could feel the ghost pain of injuries he had never sustained and remember - _imagine_ \- the sensation of a body different from the one he had, with limbs stronger and the balance point of it much lower. But moreover, he felt a diapason of emotions that swirled and coiled in his chest, which had no reason to exist. Grief and joy, chest-swelling pride and simmering, all-consuming rage. Rage against himself.

They were delusions. John had rationally known so even when he had been nothing but a too serious child and he had not forgotten it when he had turned into an angry teenager, almost unhinged by his frustrations. He had joined the Army the day after he had come of age, deciding to put both his mind and body under the yoke of martial discipline before it was too late. It had been either that or seeing a therapist. Years later, when the injury he had almost succumbed to had made it compulsory for John to see one - and he had to admit his nightmares had been, and still were to an extent, more often filled with sun-scorched sand and unbearable heat, with the deafening sound of a machine-gun firing, rather than with strange war-cries and dark blood, almost black, on his hands - he had not regretted his choice. Discipline worked much better than prescription drugs. And it didn't turn him into a person he had trouble recognising.

John shook his head, trying to stop the train of thoughts from derailing into the raw flesh of matters he could not deal with. He inhaled the damp autumn air and focused on the fairly empty street ahead, every now and then a car sped by, bright lights blinding him for a moment before they vanished into distant rumble. He enjoyed this part of Cardiff. Harriet - being as much a creature of habit as he was - had brought him to the Victorian-looking restaurant before and it was not the first time he had ventured down those streets, trying to process the aftermath of a dinner with her. It was a quiet area, almost quaint with its rows upon rows of Victorian terraced-houses with their grey brick façades and the occasional red-bricked one standing out. It reminded him of his first home, back in the day when their father had still been with them.

They had lived in a portion of London quite like the one he was currently strolling through. He still remembered fondly the afternoons spent chasing an old tattered football down the street with Adam, Harry and Jack.

Jack, who had been deployed to Iraq with him, but had never made it back. A grenade had taken away most of him. John could still see in his mind's eye the other man's bloodshot hazel orbs looking at him unseeing.

His breath turned leaden in his chest, refusing to ascend his windpipe.

They hadn't been close. After his parent's divorce they had moved from their Islington home and John hadn't seen any of the boys for over a decade. A few shared memories and some poor jokes in their camp reacquainted John and Jack, but only three weeks later the latter was lying sprawled, _spilled_ , on the scorching sand in an alley in Basra and John could not erase the wrongness of the sight. He liked to remember his childhood mates with their hair sticking to their foreheads with perspiration while they ran on the hot tarmac, but Jack's forehead would forever be imprinted in his mind with a long smear of blood on it, pale in death.

 

John ran his hand through his hair, wryly wondering if he was going to summon all of his demons on this particular evening or if there was hope he could make it back to his hotel with his mind still in one, albeit cracked, piece? He breathed deeply, trying to match the pace of his intakes and out-takes of air with his strides, willing his rapidly beating heart to slow down to a tamer pace. His feet still carried him forward, down another street that looked no different from the one before, still large and flanked with the one-story terraced-houses he was so fond of.

There were slightly more people about, mostly younger folk and John realised he must be nearing the University. The area he was passing was a notorious abode of students, which made it more lively, albeit still sedated. It was a work-day after all. His superior in the Ministry of Defence had practically forced John to take a holiday. And he had been overdue a visit to Harriet. He had actually been hoping to see Evan as well, but his nephew had been occupied with his step-father and had no time for his unsociable and foul-tempered uncle. John scowled, but a sigh escaped his lips nonetheless. The boy was fifteen years old, he could hardly be blamed for his choice.

 

John nearly slammed into someone, so engrossed he was in his thoughts about his scrawny nephew who hardly ever parted from his laptop. He caught himself a moment before he collided on them, cursing inwardly. The other person, a short woman dressed in a thick brown knitted vest had her blond head - or was it red, John couldn't quite tell under the yellow light of the street-lamps - bent over an oversized messenger bag and didn't even notice him. Seemingly finding what she had been rummaging for, she straightened herself and moved forward, giving an absent glance at the street behind, almost as if she had finally registered their near-collision.

In the split second she looked back, John took in the freckled face framed by straight chin-length hair and fringe, a pair of big dark eyes almost locking onto his and the thin line of her mouth pursing beneath a nose that was too imposing to be considered pretty and yet it suited her face to perfection. John's eyes took in her _familiar_ face and his heart stopped for a long agonising moment before beating again, frantically so.

He knew this woman - or was it girl, she could be in her twenties, he mused - he _knew_ her. And at the same time he had the unshakable certainty of having never met her before. Something tugged at the back of his mind, whether a glimpse of a memory or just apprehension, John couldn't decide. What he knew, though, was that he could not let her slip away - like she was currently doing, blissfully unaware of the landslide her appearance had generated. He could not let her walk away, disappear from his life - as evanescent a presence as a brief glimpse of her in the street could be - not before he figured out why she was so uncannily familiar to him. He couldn't rationally explain the urge. He didn't even try. He might be indulging his madness, but John knew he had to follow her, in spite of that cautious hyperventilating part of his brain that told him to ignore her, to steer clear from the proverbial can of worms he was about to tackle. There was something deep, something fierce that _demanded_ him to find an answer.

She had almost reached the end of that particular street when John's feet decided to follow his thoughts. Carefully keeping his distance with deeply ingrained motions of stealth, he followed her.

 

Someone was following her. It had taken a bit to notice, but she was sure, someone was following her. Her heart hammered in her chest, but in spite of every instinct telling her to bolt and reach the nearby safety of her apartment, she forced her feet to keep calmly walking down the street. Every now and then she would cast a hopefully, inconspicuous wide-eyed glance behind her shoulder - like her brother had taught her in another life - only to find the tall man was still trailing behind her.

She felt her hands tremble while they clenched the strap of her messenger bag. She was scared. Why would that bloke follow her? Why would anyone follow her? Memories of her teenage years spent living in one of the poorer parts of Bristol surfaced unbidden and countless scenarios unfolded in her mind, tangles of possible reasons for the man's behaviour unravelled and knitted, but not a single thread led to an answer that didn't involve her getting hurt.

The edge of the knit nylon strap bit into the flesh of her palms as her grip tightened. She was close to home, she might escape him. No. She couldn't lead him to her home. He would know where she lived. There was a dull buzz in her ears and her breath came in huffs. She was scared.

She resisted the urge to look back. Maybe he didn't want to hurt her. Maybe she was just overreacting. Maybe he wasn't following her at all and she was just being paranoid. It was possible. But what if she was right?

Several brushes with trouble in the past had made her wary. She knew she would be at physical disadvantage against the man - against any man and most women for that part, she was a shy five feet something, after all - should he choose to attack her. And while she hoped against hope to be wrong, she would not gamble her safety, regardless of the amused little voice in her head that sounded eerily like her old hippy mother that told her she could be mistaken in her assumptions and the man simply walked in the same direction. But she tried to be rational about her situation, and asses the problem form all of its angles, preparing for the worst, should her adrenaline-fuelled fears come true.

She reached a zebra crossing and waited for the cars to speed by. Stepping off the pavement she used the opportunity to see her pursuer better. He was nearly a foot taller than her, with broad shoulders filling the dark suit jacket with a promise of muscles. He seemed strong enough to be able to easily overpower her.

His head turned in her direction and she swiftly diverted her gaze, catching a glimpse of short dark beard. She stepped on the pavement and veered right. Did he follow her? Maybe he didn't, maybe he was still on the other side of the street. He wasn't. She exhaled a quivering breath. She needed a plan.

Ahead of her, tucked between two houses was an alley - a short-cut that connected the street she was currently on with the one she lived in. She used it seldom and never this late because it was narrow and dimly lit, a perfect place to be attacked. A perfect place for an ambush.

There was a cautious part of her mind that tried to point out that ambushing someone, attacking them was _not_ self-defence and she could - and most likely _would_ \- get in trouble. But the survival instinct within her, coupled with a deep ingrained loathing for cowardice made her feet turn in the direction of the alley, stopping just as she rounded the corner and press her back flush on the stone flank of the building.

 

The street lamp nearby cast a sickly white light on the narrow lane. _Maybe the man won't follow._ Her heartbeats drummed in her ears and she adjusted the strap of her bag. She had half a mind to take it off, so it would not hinder her movements, but she planned on incapacitating her pursuer for long enough to allow her to run away from him into the safety of her home. She was _not_ going to forfeit her books.

The moments stretched like bubblegum, ever thinning until they inevitably snapped and footsteps resounded on the pavement. Her body tensed, ready to make a leap. The man stepped into the alley and she detached herself from the wall. She was about to lunge forward and knock him off his feet when she saw his face and froze.

 

"Thorin?" the woman breathed, an edge of incredulity in her soft voice. John felt his whole body grow tense. She had called him... The instinct to flee, to put as much distance between himself and that _name_ lingering in the autumn air, battled viciously within him against a gut-wrenching feeling eerily akin to recognition. He felt himself split down the middle, unable to form a coherent thought. She had called him...

She was looking at him with dark eyes wide in disbelief, her mouth opening and closing with words about to drip from her pale lips but just never spilling. Almost as if she were waiting for him. But he was stuck, chained to a whirlwind of emotions, of ghost voices inside his skull, of ephemeral glimpses of faces, her - no his- face, John's face - reflected in a silver mirror - and that _name_ , whispered, spoken, shouted, a pleading voice begging with those two syllables. Thorin.

 _He_ was Thorin. But he was _John._ He was Thorin. No. _He couldn't._ What was it that he couldn't do? _Remember..._ He felt his chest burn with the weight of a breath he was unable to let out. It was as if his whole body rebelled against the notion. But the monsters he had locked in the deepest dungeons of his mind were breaking down the gates and he was choking, helpless. Overwhelmed.

He looked at the younger woman, pleading her with his eyes - his mouth was a foreign part of his body, estranged beyond the reach of his control - begging her to undo her words. But she couldn't, could she? She had broken the dam and now John - no, Thorin - _he_ was swept away, even if he hadn't moved a single muscle.

She was looking at him in expectation, nervously biting her lip. She - _he_ \- had not used to bite her lip before. No. It was a new habit. But she had been nervous, she - he - had used to fidget with her hands the way she was fidgeting now. He - she - had always been nervous around John - no, Thorin.

 

"Ori" Thorin said almost tentatively, his blue eyes widening in surprise. His voice was the rich baritone she remembered well, but there was an edge to it - _desperation?_ \- that made her frown. Thorin was _perturbed_ , as far from him usual stoic composure as she had seen him be. And she _had_ seen him. Ori could not forget the weeks under the Mountain, the fruitless search for the Arkenstone. It had been one of her most vivid memories for many years, before the other ones crystallised in her mind. The gold-sickness of her King... But his eyes were wrong. They were not absent, gazing longingly into distance. Quite the contrary, they were _too_ present. Conflicted. Pleading. Scared.

His whole body seemed ready to bolt away, just like hers had been minutes prior and at the same time he seemed rooted into place. Long limbs petrified beneath the grey fabric of the suit. Ori was at loss. What should she do?

She had never truly entertained the notion of meeting anyone from her past life, and now that none other than her King was standing in front of her, Ori had... done what exactly? She wasn't sure. The only thing she knew was that it made her stomach constrict to see Thorin looking at her with that array of emotions in his cornflower eyes. To see him look like the universe was collapsing into a super-massive black-hole, swallowed bit by bit.

So she pulled her best impression of Dori and asked

"I know it's late, but would you care for a cup of tea? I have chamomile..." she trailed. He blinked twice, his gaze piercing her, then, tensely, he nodded.

 

The short walk to Ori's apartment had been the most awkward three minutes of her life. Thorin had wordlessly followed her, his eyes fixed on the back of her head while she had been biting her lip raw - a habit she had picked from her current mother. Upon reaching the two-story high terraced-house her apartment was in, Ori had fumbled with the keys, his silent presence making her nervous.

"I'm sorry for the mess." she told him upon entering her small attic apartment, cringing at the unseemly state of it and feeling the heat pool on her cheeks. There was half a dozen books open on her kitchen table, with loose sheets of scribbled paper scattered everywhere and several balls of yarn on the chair - she had been picking the right colours for her next knitting project. "I wasn't expecting visitors" she apologised, gesturing him to take a seat while she put the kettle on and tidied the table.

 

Several minutes later Ori sat with a steaming mug of mint tea when Thorin's voice finally broke the heavy silence that had settled on them.

"I don't understand." he said in his deep voice, an edge of something Ori could not identify lacing it. "How... how is this possible? What _is_ this?"

His eyes were looking straight into hers, demanding.

"Well" she begun, hands fidgeting with her mug, while her eyes locked on the tiny ripples forming on the surface of the amber liquid. "We know each other, at least we _knew_ each other. I was Ori son of Miri, scribe in your Company and you were Thorin Oakenshield, my King."

Ori timidly lifted her eyes and got trapped in his flesh-piercing, soul-boring gaze. His eyes were _scorching_ with the intensity of that gaze, but he didn't speak.

"And I was," she continued fishing for courage "well, actually it seems we _both_ were, reborn."

"Reborn?" he asked in a drawl, unblinking. Ori took a sip of her tea for a reprieve form that gaze.

"Yes." she replied "We have lived, and died, before. I believe it was a distant past. And at some point, for reasons I cannot scientifically prove, we were reborn. I... I know this because I remember it all."

Ori had dedicated herself to those memories, painstakingly cataloguing them, organising them in chronological order. She had read every work available on the subject - hardly scientific papers, but she worked with what she had - making her own theories and assumptions, but still she could give Thorin conjectures at best. She didn't have sufficient proofs. For anything really. Even the world she remembered living in was not mentioned in any historical record. The closest reference she had were those found in the folklore and mythology of the Germanic tribes. It was frustrating sometimes, to be the only person around with knowledge about Middle Earth and Dwarves.

But Thorin was here, sitting at the other end of her Formica table, shaking his head - she noticed when she finally peeled her eyes away from her tea - with a frown knitting his dark eyebrows. A long-fingered hand ran through his short-cropped hair - how strange it was to see him without his mane of black curls. He was looking at her, but Ori still saw his expression and it made any possible elation she may have felt at the prospect of not being the only one, shrivel. He looked haunted, battling an inner conflict she was not privy to. Ori didn't understand.

Or maybe she did? His last days had been spent in the haze of dragon-sickness, making him almost unrecognisable to his companions who had followed him on his quest. He had seemingly overcome it right before he had rallied them and joined the fray in the slopes of Erebor. Had he? Was his mind sound?

It was a horribly disloyal thought to be conceived and Ori refused to believe it, shaking her head in a mirror motion of her King's, She would not doubt him. Still, the dwarf - the man - currently pushing himself to his feet with the screech of the chair on the tiles of her kitchen floor looked on the verge of a breakdown and Ori was at loss. Had she done it? The more she had spoken the more troubled he had seemed. Her stomach clenched.

 

Ori sat wide-eyed, her knuckles white as she gripped the orange polka-dotted mug, watching him pace down the length of her kitchenette. He had to duck his head to avoid hitting the ceiling where it sloped towards the floor. But he couldn't sit still, not when his thoughts spiralled out of control.

The things she had said. The rightness - the _wrongness_ \- of her words made his head feel like it was splitting into a thousand shards. Something tight coiled in his chest, spiralling towards his throat, at the same time squeezing painfully his rapidly beating heart. It was too much. It was wrong. It was _right_.

He was losing his grip, he could feel it. His breaths came shallow and the last shred of rationality he was holding to, warned him, recognising the harbingers. And he knew he had to get out of there. But his lungs were refusing to breathe and his vision began to blacken at the edges. He saw Ori get out of her chair and he knew he needed to _get out of here._ No one could see John fall apart. Thorin. John. _He needed to get out of here._

Marvelling at how oddly compliant his feet were, he strode towards the door with a belated apologetic look towards the redhead and grabbed the brass doorknob, yanking the door open.

"Are you alright?" she was raising from her chair, strawberry blond eyebrows furrowed in concern.

"I'm sorry." he croaked without looking at her and closed the door behind him. He managed to get out of the building before he collapsed to his knees. He hoped she wouldn't follow.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "Lavender moon" by Haroula Rose.


	2. Before we begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor update: 21/05/2015

 

 

The second week of December ended with an overcast sky tinged in a dull grey and a light dusting of snow on the streets of London. It was cold enough to warrant putting on his leather gloves while he waited on Paddington station for his train. It had been nearly two months since he had last travelled outside the capital. Seven weeks and two days, to be precise, since his encounter with Ori and the panic attack that had had him come to his senses in the local ER – courtesy of a passer-by, he had been told. Twenty-three days since his life had been turned upside down.

The aftermath had been a blur of denial and panic. And rage. He had drunk himself into stupor more nights than he was comfortable admitting to himself when his insomnia had had him stare at the white ceiling of his bedroom and his mind supplied him with the memories of his past life. He wished more than ever to not have them. For while it had been crippling to believe himself insane, to think _those_ memories were true was indescribable. It was overwhelming. His past was overwhelming. It had taken every ounce of self-control – and it still took – to let them slide away in a trail of smoke when they burned in the forefront of his mind, to remain in control of his own body and mind when his lungs refused to cooperate and the urge to give in and bury himself under the shroud of his own perceived misery threatened to consume him.

Thorin glanced at his watch, idly marvelling at the strangeness of referring to himself with that name once again, after three decades and some more of being John H. Smith. He smiled, the irony of his surname not lost to him.

It was time to go, he realised when his eyes finally registered the digits displayed on the silvery screen. He moved towards the train. Upon boarding he took off his coat and gloves, taking an empty seat near a window, like he always did, like he had done the last time he had travelled to Cardiff.

The weeks that had passed since had been horrid and Thorin did not fool himself into thinking the worst was past. Things were far from being stable. _He_ was far from being stable, but at least he had come to terms with the reality of his mind not being damaged beyond repair. Well, he reasoned, no more damaged than the minds of any former soldier he knew – some things left a trace deeper than the seven bullet-holes in his back and the three exit wounds on his front.

He was trying most earnestly to wrap his mind around the notion of being reborn. That Ori – a puzzle herself, since he distinctly remember her being male and he seemed to recall her mentioning she had been the _son_ of Miri – was so calmly convinced of it helped him to a degree, even if it all felt much too surreal.

It was indeed surreal, Thorin mused while he watched London disappear in the distance. Everything felt the same way the world would after a long sleepless night, when he would get to watch the sunrise framed by his window and he would know it was a new day, but both his mind and body, not having had the chance to reset themselves would linger in a limbo.

Thorin – or maybe John, it was hard to decide between the names, he _was_ both – had been and still was disoriented, knowing he should grasp at certainties, but too numb to do anything but float on the current, watching himself move through his daily motions of sleep, wake, train, eat, work, repeat without really being in control of himself. This odd detachment frightened him to his core. He was always in control. Or at least, that was the lie he liked to tell himself.

The train moved forward through the English countryside and Thorin wondered if he had the strength to rebuild his life, his _lives._ If his memories were to be trusted he had much to atone for. But firstly he needed to regain a grip on his own treacherous mind.

 

Ori sat cross-legged on the sofa, enjoying a much earned respite from working on her paper, in the shape of a very thick hardback volume on eastern religions her mother had given her for her latest birthday. She opened it and gingerly placed the bookmark on the lavender quilt she had knitted herself to cover the threadbare surface of the sofa. The book was rather interesting, she mused, if one overlooked the New Age patina of some portions. It was the dogmatic premises of the various religions that perked Ori's interest, chiefly because they tended to focus on the concept of reincarnation.

The passage she had stopped at sported an interesting bibliographical reference and Ori scribbled it down on a loose sheet of paper – she _knew_ she should use a notebook, it would be tidier, but it was a habit she could not seem to lose. The name in the footnote seemed familiar, Klaus Weber, and Ori was wondering if she had read some work of his before when the doorbell rang.

Ori frowned and got up from the sofa to answer the door. She seldom had any visitors and they were usually expected. She unlocked the door and opened it.

“Thorin?” she exclaimed in surprise. The man in question was standing in the narrow hallway, back ramrod straight but with a slightly apologetic look in his sky-blue eyes.

“May I come in?” he asked respectfully, the tinge of majesty he had always sported showing once again and Ori exhaled a breath she hadn't known she had been holding.

The man she had invited for tea two months prior – after nearly knocking him out in a back alley of Cathays – had _looked_ like Thorin, but his whole demeanour had been queer. To see her King truly back filled her with the same joy and pride she had felt back when she had been just a young dwarven scribe, allowed to join the most noble of quests only through sheer stubbornness.

Ori beamed at Thorin, opening the door widely and standing aside to let him through.

“Certainly!” she replied happily “Make yourself comfortable while I put the kettle on.”

Ori was beaming at him, large brown eyes shining with joy. He was confused at her elation, but not displeased. Thorin had worried about the welcome he would get from her after the abrupt fashion their last encounter had ended in.

His worry held an undercurrent of selfish motives, though. Ori was the only person capable of giving him any answer at all about his predicament. It made him feel an edge of discomfort, especially when faced with her genuine happiness at seeing him again.

There was an after-taste of bile in his mouth, but he chose to ignore it in favour of giving the young woman wrapped in a large purple cardigan that reached to her knees, a smile of his own.

He hoped it reached his eyes.

She had motioned him to come inside and he complied. With an odd sense of deja vu he was directed towards the kitchen. He sat down, leaning his forearms on the grey Formica table while she hung his coat on the iron rack on the wall.

“I'll be with you in a moment” she told him as walked back in the kitchenette and started pouring water in the kettle.

She was busying herself with teacups and saucers and Thorin took the opportunity to observe her home. Now that he wasn't out of his depth – despite the eerie lightness of his limbs – he noticed the cosiness of the small attic studio. Unlike his home, it had the look of a place lived in. There were books covering every available surface – Thorin was certain the bookcase that divided the living area from what he assumed was the sleeping space defied all laws of statics, considering the sheer amount of books clogging it – and everyday items were scattered around: a laptop open on the coffee table, an unwrapped package of biscuits placed nearby, a pair of cushions stacked haphazardly on the armrest of the sofa. There was a mild chaos to the place, but the underlying tidiness was undeniable.

It certainly fit the image he had of the former scribe. Although the more he observed her and her home, the more he realised he didn't really know her.

“How do you take your tea?” Ori's soft voice interrupted his musings.

“One lump of sugar. No milk.” he replied “Thank you.” He took the proffered teacup and picked a scone form the chipped plate she had put on the table.

“I'm glad you came.” she told him tentatively, seating herself across him and curling her thin fingers around her teacup. She had a small smile on her lips, but her reddish brows slightly furrowed. He made her nervous, he realised. At least she wasn't biting her lip yet, like she had done during their past encounter.

He needed to cut it short, there was no point in tiptoeing around the reason for his visit.

“I need answers” he told her simply.

Harriet always said his social skills were subpar and he could vaguely recall another sister, _Thorin's_ sister – Dís – saying something along the same line, but in a much more colourful language. But Ori must have expected his lack of tact because she grinned and said dryly

“I've figured out as much.” then in a tone that betrayed curiosity “What do you wish to know?”

Everything. Instead he said

“You claim we've been reborn. How is it possible?”

She looked at him for a moment, tilting her had in thought, the tips of her straight strawberry blond hair touching her shoulder.

“Well, I _have_ mostly just conjectures that sum up to a theory...” she began uncertainly. He nodded slowly in encouragement.

“Do you remember the legend of Durin?” she asked him seriously.

“Our forefather?” he frowned puzzled.

The name evoked an impressive array of disconnected thoughts that swirled chaotically. And yet he _knew_ there was something he was supposed to remember... And then it dawned on him

“Durin the Deathless.” he breathed widening his eyes. _Of course._

“He was reborn five times.” he added and then with more urgency he asked “Do you think this happened to us because we are of his line?”

It would make sense.

Thorin recalled with crystal clarity now. He had been a direct heir and while Ori and her brothers had been very distant cousins, they had been descendants of Durin nonetheless. Which could mean his family – he had a _family_ , a sister and _nephews_ ! _-_ was possibly around. And... and Dwalin and Balin... His head spun with all the possibilities and he felt his heart beat faster as an odd excitement filled him, lifting away some of the uncanny sense of surrealism that had wrapped his perception.

He could almost feel the reality of his predicament. _Accept it._

“Yes and no.” was Ori's cryptic answer and he frowned, reining in his excitement.

“Durin being reborn sets a precedent.” she explained matter-of-factly, waving her hands to emphasize her words, her previous nervousness forgotten for a moment. “But the only thing it tells us is that it is possible, albeit unattested.”

“Although, the fact that we are currently having this conversation does make it a moot point.” she added with a with a small shrug “I mean, we _have_ been reborn and that's factual. Unless both you _and_ my memories are a product of my imagination, which is frankly...”

Thorin snapped his head up and fixed her with a wide eyed look that could pierce armour. Ori shut up, suddenly feeling all her former apprehension – the one she had felt on their last encounter, like on _every_ encounter or interaction they ever had - resurface. _What had she said wrong?_

She swallowed, biting her lip with such force she felt the rusty tang in her mouth. She had said something she shouldn't have said, she was certain. Thorin had the strangest look in his blue eyes and his lips were set in a thin line.

Ori was so frustrated with herself. She had dedicated all her energies on the study of her past, reading countless books on any topic remotely related to reincarnation or to the world she remembered, written several essays – strictly for personal uses – and kept a neat journal with the account of each and every memory; and when the opportunity to finally discuss it with someone who wasn't her mercurial mother arose, she had to go and _cock up_ the whole conversation.

“I'm... Sorry. I babble.” she told him, fidgeting with the small teaspoon that was drying on the saucer.

“Never mind.” he told her a moment later, his voice contrite. Ori felt her eyebrows rise in surprise.

“Continue, _please._ ” he said, the latter added as an afterthought and Ori blinked, feeling a sudden, wave of laughter ripple within her where a tangle of nerves had throbbed only moments prior. It was a sudden change of mood entirely odd for her, even she understood where it stemmed from - her King had never been the most graceful Dwarf. She suspected there was and undercurrent of hysteria in it.

She shook her head, taking it in stride.

“Yes, I was saying.” she resumed, pushing down her mirth.

“I believe our race, I mean our _former_ race, much like the Elves, can be reborn.” she told him in the business-like tone her old schoolmates had always teased her about.

“The Elves?” Thorin interrupted and there a hard edge in his voice. With a small grimace she recalled he had no love for the race in question.

Ori herself had been torn on the subject, especially in the past life. On one hand she had the first-hand experience with their hospitality – or lack thereof in the case of the Mirkwood Elves – but on the other there were the precious tomes written in Sindarin she had found in the Library of Erebor which had been _magnificent,_ the finest example of academics. It was difficult to hate a race that applied so meticulously, with such _love_ , to their lore.

“I... I remember reading an account of the rebirth of an Elf.” she stutteried “A warrior lord who died in the Fall of Gondolin.”

“ I don't recall his name, though.” she admitted. And it was rather frustrating, because in the present day and age it meant the knowledge was lost for good.

“Anyway” she wrung her sweaty hands in nervousness, unwilling to linger on Thorin's dislike for the Elves nor the colossal responsibility that weighted on her shoulders in regards of the preservation of the lore of her past.

“I know, actually I assume, this things, but I have no idea _how_ we came back” she admitted. _Nor why._ But she didn't voice the latter.

Durin had always been reborn in “interesting times”, so were they randomly reborn in this point in history or was there a reason? And how come _both_ of them were reborn in the same time and country? There were so many questions that needed answering. But Ori had only her memories to go by.

Or not.

Thorin was looking at her expectantly, waiting for her to continue, confident she must at least have a theory or two. She could see it in his blue eyes. She inhaled.

He remembered as well. Maybe...

“You could help me.” she told him. He furrowed his dark eyebrows

“Figure this out, I mean.” she clarified “I remember nearly everything from my past life... some portions though, I'm not sure how reliable my memories are. Perhaps if we compared...”

“Compare our memories?” his voice was guarded, as was his look.

“Not _everything._ ” she told him hastily, noticing his tense shoulders under the midnight blue jumper he was wearing. His long fingers were closing around the teacup in a vice-like grip.

“Not unless you want to.” she said placatively “There are just some parts of past events I am unsure about.” Her voice sounded small even to her own ears.

“Like?” his tone was clipped.

The look in his sky blue orbs was making her stomach clench. She had seldom been on the receiving end of one of his glares, and it always made her want to curl in herself. She didn't. Instead, fishing out her courage, she asked

“Do you remember the afterlife?”

Did he remember the afterlife?

Thorin felt a coil of panic slither around his lungs. How could he tell her he had spent the entirety of his life, bar the past two months, convinced that his mind was irreparably damaged and had repressed every single “delusion” which he know knew were memories, for the fear of losing his shaky grip on reality?

Did he remember the _afterlife_? He couldn't bear to remember the events that had preceded his death, so how could he?

Ori was looking at him with her dark eyes alight with hope. There was a faint blush tingeing her freckled cheeks and the length of his silence made her teeth catch the side of her bottom lip once again. She was nervous. Thorin knew it was his fault. He had and still possessed the uncanny ability of making people squirm under his gaze.

His assistant at the Ministry of Defence was a testimony to it. Nearly every time Thorin – John – was in the same room, Roberts became a stuttering mess of gangly limbs and wire-rimmed glasses, but the second he thought John was no longer around the boy was the most efficient secretary one could wish, impeccably smooth and polite. In a way Ori reminded him of Roberts – or was it the other way around? At least the way Thorin had perceived Ori in his past life did. The young woman that sat in front of him was much more than he had thought. Ori was not just a shy scribe with a slingshot – and rather skilled with a war-hammer, he recalled. That she was brave, he had already known, but the scope of determination and dedication to her craft was something he had not realised before. He had a feeling there was much more hidden under the surface.

The clinking hollow sound of an empty teacup being put on its saucer snapped him from his thoughts and Thorin realised she was still waiting for his answer. The frown of worry on her pale forehead was deep.

“No.” he replied to her question and her face fell.

“It's alright, I guess.” she said disheartened “If you recall anything you can give me a call, though.”

He nodded. They exchanged their mobile phone numbers and the conversation came to a lull afterwards, silence stretching out of the comfortable and into awkwardness. His tea had grown cold but he downed it the same. Ori looked like she was on the verge of saying something more than once, but her thin lips remained sealed.

The yellow clock on the wall above her head showed nearly 8 o'clock and Thorin decided it was time to excuse himself.

“I should go.” he told her and she nodded. The chairs scraped loudly on the tiled floor and they made their way to the door.

“If you...” she began in a small voice while she handed him his coat “If you want to talk about the past... I mean, I wouldn't mind if we stayed in touch, you know? I... I don't really have anyone to talk about my past life.”

She was toying anxiously with the hem of her purple cardigan, pulling on a thread that had come loose.

“Yes” he told her “I think I would like that.”

She beamed at him and he gave her a lopsided smile, bidding her good night. He had just walked into the dark hallway, a tired light-bulb barely illuminating the cerulean walls, when her voice made him turn around

“Thorin, what is your name now?” she asked him timidly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“John Henry Smith” he replied extending his hand. Ori smiled brightly and shook it firmly.

“Anne Platt” she said, then added with a playful glint of her chocolate eyes “At your service.”

He tittered and bowed his head graciously

“And I at yours.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "Every Breaking Wave" by U2.


	3. Something so precious about this

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude.

He placed the empty tankard on the table and observed the way Ori's hands danced in the dim light of the pub making her words come alive. He was listening to the detailed account of the progress she was making with her thesis on some of the recurrent tropes in early English poetry, all the while marvelling at how little it took to get used to changes, regardless of their magnitude.

It had been December when their tentative friendship had begun. A fortnight into their acquaintance as John and Anne, Thorin had boarded a train and returned to a frosty Cardiff. He and Ori had sat in the same pub they were currently having a drink and talked about their past lives, trying to discern each other's words over the raucous singing of a loud local band that had been filling the atmosphere with the noise they had passed as Christmas carols. The crookedly festive air in the pub had matched their equally crooked conversation.

It hadn't been easy, their past interactions too few and too impersonal – without taking into account their current lives which had shaped them furthermore into hardly a pair of easygoing people – and they had struggled to talk. They had been both so tense, so wary one of the other, but after a couple of pints of lager they had managed to hold a conversation.

And it had been nice to talk to another person without having to pretend he was someone else. Before his encounter with Ori he had needed to hide the madness he had been convinced of harbouring and after it had been a matter of concealing the fact he had lived before, had died at the age of nearly two hundred years – nearly three human lifetimes in length – as King Under the Mountain. If his existence had been a lonely one before, now it was all the more.

But there was Ori, who was trying to get the attention of a waiter for a refill of their drinks, and despite the many hiccups in their conversations – especially in the beginning – he had been free to talk. Well, as free as he allowed himself to be. He had done, and still often did, all in his power so their reminiscing would focus on the lighter portions of their shared experience, rather than the abundant rest. Which was too much for him even now.

Less than a week after his visit to the Welsh capital Ori had texted him, having suddenly recalled the name of the song Bofur had sang during their first meal in Rivendell. A song they had both been struggling to recall that night in Cardiff. They had been able to remember the most disparate and minute details, from the food – Ori – to the condescending looks on their hosts' faces – Thorin – but the title of the tune the jolly miner had sung atop the dining table had eluded them at the time. In the end he had spent the better part of the late December evening texting with her about the “wonders” of Elven hospitality, the old western he had planned on watching playing forgotten on the telly.

It had taken them two more prompted threads of conversation via text messages – both times random facts that had eluded their memories during a previous chat – for them to settle in a routine. By the end of January they had taken to texting one another on a regular basis. It had been easier than talking. There had been time to weigh his words, measure hers and form a reply that had the conversation going rather than coming to a halt every other step. And text by text they had slowly learned to communicate with one another.

When Ori had come to London after her exams' session had been done with they had actually been able to talk _almost_ like a pair of normal people – she had jokingly told him there was no way they could ever be normal in human standards, they had dwarvish souls after all. And he had laughed, even if it hadn't been so funny to begin with. It had been oddly liberating to do so. To let a deep chuckle reverberate through him, growing into laughter and watch Ori join him with her amused giggles and bright brown eyes twinkling with amusement.

Somehow that unusually sunny March afternoon had led them to discuss their current lives rather than their past ones and in hindsight Thorin saw it had been during that stroll under the shyly blooming canopy of trees in Hyde Park that their friendship had been sealed.

 

Ori sipped her drink watching Thorin who was lost in thought. It was something he often did, although Ori was fairly certain he wasn't aware of it. It was expected, she supposed, given his situation. Thorin hadn't said anything, but Ori noticed how much he would struggle to recall certain moments from the past and that, coupled with the strange way he had behaved on their first encounter in this life, had made Ori reach the conclusion that he must have somehow forgotten their past, at least to a degree.

It was strange, she reflected – eyes locked on the bubbles that travelled from the bottom of her glass to its foamy top – but this second life was proving to have no shortage of oddness and Ori simply accepted it as it was. An explanation would come forth sooner or later. She was patient. Had it been any other situation or person, she might have tried to inquire, but their friendship was such a frail thing, balanced precariously on a shared past they carefully tiptoed about, avoiding anything that wasn't harmless anecdotes.

It wasn't the amount of taboo topics on her part that made her eschew portions of her past, it was the way they were scattered like land-mines amongst apparently safe memories – and wasn't that such a _Thorin_ analogy? – and they all revolved around the people she missed. Ori didn't find it difficult to talk about the Company, even mention her brothers in passing, but when she did it was ever so dismissively. Because every time she tried to truly think about Dori and Nori, dared remember the sound of their voices, the inflection in their vowels, the colour of their eyes and the crowfeet at their corners when they smiled – or grinned in Nori's case – when she thought about everything that _was_ them, Ori felt such a clawing sadness dig painfully in the insides of her ribcage. She missed them. All of her soul wept for the family she once had.

But she had another family now and her current mother was a wonderful woman. With her unique quirks and her gregarious nature, she had given Ori all the love and the support a person could wish for. But Janet Platt, for all that she had given birth to her this time around, had never been and could never even dream of replacing her eldest brother.

It had been Dori who had taught Ori the difference between right and wrong, who had spent countless evening teaching his youngest sibling how to read the runes when Ori had been just a small dwarfling orphaned at birth, and it had been him who had patiently braided Ori's stubborn hair every morning, who had worried about each and every need the youngest might had had, to the point of being fussy.

Ori had been born with the memories and the mindset of an adult Dwarf – even though it had taken her a whole decade for her mind to be able to sort itself – and no matter how important a figure Janet was in her only daughter's life, she had never been truly given the chance to fulfil her parental role. Still, Ori held her dear beyond measure.

She missed Dori and Nori with a helpless longing. What wouldn't she give to hear another tale of mischief from Nori's ever-smirking lips, to have him teach her another trick or two Dori would surely disapprove of.

Thorin's sudden appearance had made a sparkle of hope light up within her, timid but constant. If her King had been reborn, perhaps her brothers could be around too? Somewhere, perhaps.

The tingling sensation of being watched made her lift her gaze from the drink she had been staring at. Thorin's blue-eyed questioning gaze met hers and Ori realised she had zoned out too. She felt heat pool in her cheeks and mumbled a sheepish

“Sorry. I got lost in thought.”

“Likewise, I'm afraid.” he admitted gravely to her utter surprise. So he _did_ notice, after all.

“It's alright.” she told him “I was likely boring the both of us with my talk of uni.”

Thorin was about to protest when he noticed the twinkle of humour in her dark eyes and shook his head. Sarcasm and dry humour was something he had never expected to find in his former scribe. Although, she had been Nori's sibling and those traits had come aplenty with the red-haired thief, along with a blend of mischief that had put his nephews to shame over and over.

He ran his fingers through his short hair – a habit he had realised he had picked in this life – banishing the thought before he began thinking about Fili and Kili. He wasn't ready. He never would be.

“What will you do after you graduate?” he asked the younger woman, trying to divert his mind form its inexorable path and to break the uncomfortable silence that had suddenly fallen over them.

Ori's eye lit up at the question and her hands rose from the table where they had rested in their idleness.

“Well, I was actually planning to apply to UCL for my Master's.” she said with a mix of excitement and shyness.

“You are moving to London?” her asked her, genuinely surprised.

“Yes.” she replied more shyly “There is this course, Medieval and Renaissance Studies.”

“I see.” he told her uncertain of what to make of this revelation. She was going to move to London and the idea of having her around more often was _nice_ , he supposed.

“It's actually pretty exciting.” she said with a large smile, hands flying around the air in gesticulation “I mean, I've been to London several times, but to live there? I can't wait.”

“It's not that spectacular, Ori” he told her.

He didn't want to put a damper on her joy, but he had always been a firm believer in blunt truths. Sugar-coating things was not in his nature. And London truly wasn't all that spectacular a place they made it sound. But maybe that was his biased view of it.

In spite of having been born and raised in the capital, the city itself had never felt _truly_ like home to him. Although, if he was honest with himself, he had to admit no place in the world had ever felt like one. Not for John at least. This bone-deep feeling of being uprooted was something he had marvelled about for a good portion of his adult life. Now he _knew_ why, but it made it no easier for him. There had only ever been one home for him and this time around Erebor was lost to him in the most irreversible way.

“I'm not expecting anything spectacular” she told him in a sedated voice, ripping him from yet another dangerous stream of thoughts. She seemed do it often, he observed to himself.

“I just like London,” she said with a small curve of her lips “Besides, _everything_ is in London, all the museums, all the libraries, the records... it's like heaven for researchers!” her voice had grown in excitement, hands flailing to emphasise her point.

 

Thorin levelled her an amused gaze and Ori felt yet another blush heat her face. Why did she always had these outbursts in her King's presence? It was like that evening at Bilbo's house when Ori had tipsily declared his fearlessness in front of the whole Company and proceeded to tell them he would give _the dragon_ a taste of her iron – never mind Ori had owned no sword – right up its _jacksie_ of all places!

She bowed her head to hide her blush until it died down but Thorin called her attention back right away.

“Where will you be staying in London?” he asked in his customary seriousness.

“I'll have to find an apartment.” she replied.

She hadn't thought it in detail yet. Autumn seemed so far away, even though May was well underway and she had switched her woollen knitwear with cotton thread over a month ago. That final year in Cardiff had flown by and yet there was still so much to do before she graduated and packed three years' worth of belongings and returned to Bristol for the summer, that her mind was still miles away form London. But Thorin's question reminded her she had to face it, the sooner the better.

“You live in London. Any insider's suggestions about finding a home?” she asked him.

He seemed to consider her words for a moment before speaking in his usual baritone.

“It depends on how much you are willing to spend and how close to uni you want to be.” he explained “Where is it?”

“Bloomsbury” she answered

“That's very central...” he hummed, running a hand over his dark short-trimmed beard in thought.

“I can travel by bus or tube.” she interjected “It's no problem for me.”

“Well in that case” he began and spent the next half an hour describing the pros and cons of the various London areas Ori could be interested in. At some point she began rummaging through her messenger bag and extracted a half-crumpled sheet of paper from the floral-patterned folder he had seen her carry around often. A moment later a pen was in her hand and she began taking notes.

He shook his head lightly in amusement, but didn't pause in his exposition.

“It would be best if you saw the areas yourself.” he concluded.

“Yes, well, I'll have to see any potential apartment before renting it anyway” she said matter-of-factly “I suppose I'll have to find a hostel where I can afford to stay a week or two and go on this _quest._ ” she said the latter with a playful smile on her thin lips.

He huffed a chuckle and hesitated a moment before saying

“I have a guest room” he offered “You are welcome to use it while you hunt for a home.”

“I couldn't possibly impose.” she said with a shake of her straight strawberry blond hair “A hostel will do just fine.”

“You wouldn't impose.” he told her firmly and her eyebrows knitted in a meditative frown while she contemplated his offer, her bottom lip once again caught between her teeth.

“I... I guess if you are really okay with having me around for a couple of days...” she said tentatively “You would be saving me quite a bit of money. Thank you.”

He nodded gracing her with a small smile she reciprocated. It was still strange to see him smile, and what a _rare_ occurrence it was. It wasn't that he hadn't smiled in the past, but Ori remembered there had ever been a crushing weight pressing on her King's rare moments of joy. But no more. His demeanour was _lighter_ in a way and most of the time Ori could forget her was a King and in her eyes he became just a man.

She wasn't blind, though. She knew the lightness was only apparent. Ori noticed from time to time how his eyes would turn into a stony glare and his jaw would be rigidly set. He would look so stoically haunted and pridefully helpless she would always seek a way to draw his attention to anything other than what lurked behind that look of regal resignation.

But he was smiling now, albeit moderately, his inner toils forgotten for a while and Ori wanted to keep the light mood of their conversation, so she launched herself into the adventurous tale of her first visit to London and how she had gotten lost, which in turn prompted Thorin to start a tale of his own about getting hopelessly lost in the Welsh countryside and almost being late to his sister's second wedding

“I've gotten a GPS for my car after that.” he told her and Ori recalled how directionally challenged – as the politically correct term went – he had been in his past life. She distinctly remembered he had managed to get lost _twice_ on his way to Bag End. She also remembered the nasty jokes Nori had whispered in her ear at their King's expense. How angry she had been with Nori that evening! Thorin had been, still was in a way, Ori's King, the paragon of majesty in the scribe's eyes and Nori's cynicism had wounded Ori's firmest beliefs.

It was different now, and not just because she had seen her King at his lowest, consumed by the lust for gold and the alienating greed that had plagued his ancestors – Ori would never be able to erase form her mind the image of Bilbo hanging from the ramparts of Erebor, his neck gripped firmly in Thorin's hand. No, it was different because the man sitting in front of her, regaling her with tales of his travels across Britain, was not the same person he had been. There was Thorin son of Thráin son of Thrór, King Under the Mountain, but there was also John Henry Smith, former soldier who loved his current sister in the grumpiest possible way – she could see it in the slight softening of his gaze whenever he mentioned her, the contempt in his words notwithstanding – and he was _both_ these people and altogether human, like herself.

It was because Ori was now able to perceive him as a person rather that all the roles he had and still fulfilled, that she was able to let go of her former awe and talk to him like an equal. And it was surely because of this new-found familiarity that Ori, prompted by the lengthy conversation on losing one's way, decided to indulge her curiosity

“Um... Thorin, can I ask you something” she inquired and he nodded with a small frown no doubt resulting from the hesitation in her voice. “You know, I've been wondering, how did you manage to find my home back in December?”

The underlying implications must have been obvious because Ori saw his shoulders tense ever so slightly.

“I remembered the way.” he replied tersely, his eyes unreadable.

“Really?” she asked and mentally kicked herself the moment the words escaped her lips. His eyebrows shot up “I... I mean, you've only been there once and it's a bit of a maze and, well, you _did_ manage to get lost in the Shire of all places...” she trailed, the heat of her blush on her cheeks scorching like molten metal.

There was familiarity and there was being stupid. And possibly tipsy. She eyed the half-empty tankard of lager disapprovingly and hoped she hadn't offended him.

Regardless of her former reasoning Thorin was still her King, even if his kingdom no longer existed on any geographical map, the tides of the ages having swallowed the world they remembered; and as such he deserved her respect.

He looked at her with those frosty-blue eyes of his and said nothing for the longest time – or perhaps just a heartbeat. When he finally opened his mouth Ori was wringing her hands nervously

“I didn't say I found it right away.” he replied dryly.

Ori blinked twice, still shaken by her chastising thoughts, before huffing a strangled chuckle. Thorin cocked an eyebrow at her, tittering in clear amusement at her reaction. She shook her head and abandoned herself to the ripples of laughter. As the slight edge of hysteria in it dulled she found herself enjoying her mirth. Thorin smirked in silent laughter.

It was nice, she thought, it was really nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “From Eden” by Hozier.


	4. Such a fine line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life moves forward and conspires.

She stood in the middle of her apartment and hesitated. The sun shone through the skylight bathing the studio in a warm golden light that set aflame the dust lingering in the air – the same dust that she had fiercely battled against for three years and kept losing to. Everything was in its proper place – or properly _misplaced_ like some items were wont to be despite her ingrained tidiness. Her home was waiting for her to go through her usual daily motions, to start a kettle, turn on the music – she had been humming the tune to “Dancing queen” the whole morning and her eyes migrated to the stack of CD-s placed on the bottom shelf of her coffee table.

It was tempting, to do so. To simply enjoy the Saturday morning with the cheerful tunes of the Seventies' pop reverberating through the attic while she read the Klaus Weber book she had purchased the week before and sipped tea, furiously scribbling notes in the small hardback notebook she had finally purchased after nearly losing all her notes to a gust of wind in Bute Park

But she couldn't.

Now that she had gotten the honours there was no reason for her to stay in Cardiff any longer. And she had already told her landlord she would vacate the apartment by the end of that week. She would be going home to Bristol for the rest of the summer, save from the week she was planning to spend in London, apartment hunting.

She grinned at the thought. She could hardly wait to go to the capital. A whole week in London and in Autumn she would be moving there. For _two whole years._ Maybe even more if she chose to do her doctorate there – she had no doubts about wanting to get a Ph.D., it was only the University she would be doing her doctorate at she had not yet decided about, but there was plenty of time for that.

London was going to be _splendid_. She just knew. She never had a bad time in London, not even when she had gotten lost or when a sudden thunderstorm had left her drenched to the bone – nothing could compare to riding a pony in the rain for a whole fortnight, she recalled wryly.

And she was going to stay at Thorin's.

She was so excited about this. But at the same time there was a knot of sadness that bound her thoughts tightly. Before she could think of travelling to the capital she had to pack all of her belongings and bid her Cardiff home farewell. And that was not so splendid. Not at all.

She looked around herself, taking in the details of her home and committing them to memory.

She had gotten fond of the small attic apartment. It was the first home she had ever had – in both her lives – just for herself. And that made it a special place. _Her_ special place. But now she had to break it apart, book by book, pillow by pillow and plate by plate, each and every item would have to be taken away from its usual lodging and packed into the cardboard boxes that laid limply folded near the door.

She heaved a heavy sigh. She had to do it, but it was hard. It was like leaving the Blue Mountains all over again. There was the excitement of the days to come, the brightness of a future that beckoned Ori to move forward, to peel away from the past, from what was comfortably familiar and trudge into the unknown. But there was also the knowledge that some things would be forever lost. Things that may seem small and unimportant, but which held a unique value in her heart. Her favourite chair in the kitchenette or the way the light filtered through the bookshelf, painting lines and shapes on her bed in the mornings.

It was the same grief Ori had felt at leaving the sooth-covered hearth of their home in Thorin's Halls or the small desk Ori had written daily at.

She had felt it before, this reluctance at letting go. But like Ori had done in the past she would do it again. She only hoped the analogy with leaving for the Quest would not extend to her stay at London. Because while Erebor had been a marvellous place, a kingdom comparable only with the halls of Khazad-Dûm, it had claimed a price too high to bear paying once, let alone ever again. And so had the Halls of Durin, her mind added sombrely.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment and breathed deeply. After she blinked them open she went to her coffee table and rummaged through her CD-s before putting her favourite ABBA album in the player and setting to work, singing along.

 

His mobile phone chimed loudly and Thorin moved the pile of folders laid above it to a relatively empty spot on his desk and retrieved the device. He flicked it open, smiling when Ori's message greeted him:

“ _Back to Bristol! I haven't realised I own so many things. My room looks like a bazaar. XD”_

He leaned back on his chair and chuckled. He could picture Ori sitting in a small room besieged by her belongings, much like he felt when he looked at the crowed chaos of paperwork that his desk sported. Thorin had noticed the amount of belongings she owned, books mostly, but also knick-knacks and pillows and various unidentifiable knitted items which had been placed around her studio, so he wasn't surprised at all and duly texted her so.

After pressing “send” he put the phone in his pocket and raised from his chair, taking his mug of coffee to sip from it – tea was too mild to deal with his work lately – and stretched his legs a bit. He thankfully had an office large enough to allow some pacing before retracing his steps. He stopped by the window, mug hovering in mid-air and smiled.

It was nice to hear from Ori. They hadn't been in touch so much in the past month, she had been very busy with her graduation and he had been more so here at the Ministry. The past couple of months had been very taxing, changes in the budget had made the workload exponentially increase and he had been hard pressed to finish his reports, on top of another _fifty_ other tasks. And to make it worse, Roberts, his assistant, had been temporarily relocated – _temporarily_ only because Thorin had raised hell after a fortnight of being subjected to the sheer incompetence and stupidity of the new P.A. he had been given. The return of his cripplingly shy assistant had been a blessing, even if Thorin still had way more work that needed to be done that actual time to do it.

He put the mug down on the windowsill, looking at the hot hazy day outside the window and blessing air-conditioning with all his heart.

Thorin liked his job well enough, it paid the bills and he still had enough left to live comfortably. It was perhaps a little monotonous, but no worse than any desk job could be and after spending most of his adult life moving from one place to another and too often risking his neck on a daily basis – eerily alike his _past_ life – he was glad Harriet had been able to pull those connections of hers and made it possible for Thorin to find a job at the Ministry. It was stable and unexciting and it wasn't difficult to like it for it. Thorin had always only wanted stability. Even in his past life he had never suffered from wanderlust. Quite the contrary in fact. He had only ever wanted a home, _his_ home. And _that_ had made him risk his life and the lives of his companions. A home that was truly lost to him.

He ran his fingers through his hair. Perhaps one day he would be able to grieve for his lost home.

His mobile phone sounded the arrival of another message and he shook his head, fishing it out of his pocket. Ori's ability to intercept his maudlin musings was uncanny. He opened the text message and read:

“ _Haha, very funny. How are you? “_

His thumb hovered a moment over the buttons and he glanced towards his desk.

“ _Busy...”_ he began writing and told her about his woes at work.

Message after message they continued chatting the whole afternoon. The beeps from his phone interrupted him periodically from the tedious report he had resumed editing in the meanwhile, and before he noticed the day trickled by. When Roberts knocked in his usual hesitant way and stuttered that he was going home and if Mr. Smith needed something from him, only to be waved away by, Thorin was in a far lighter mood than he would have normally been.

 

Ori sat on the narrow balcony of the apartment, idly flicking through the pages of “Samsara and the Soul” by Klaus Weber. The sticky heat was nearly unbearable, even that late in the evening and Ori's clothes were damp with perspiration. She took a sip of her quickly warming iced tea and tried to concentrate on the book on her lap, but the words eluded her. It wasn't that the book was poorly written. Quite the opposite. The Eastern religions scholar from Germany was an excellent prosaist and his works were devoid of the usual dryness typical of academic papers. No, it was simply too hot to think, to do anything really, let alone try to comprehend the postulates of Buddhism.

But it wasn't nearly late enough to go to sleep. She took her mobile phone from the small wicker table where it laid and checked if Thorin had replied to her last message. Unsurprisingly the screen greeted her blankly and she put the device back on its previous place. Thorin always took his time typing a response. She suspected he carefully examined his words before sending his texts. Unlike their conversations which would hiccup and reach an impasse still often enough – the sheer amount of taboo topics was impressive and it was inevitable that one or two escaped their notice until it was too late. Thankfully they always recovered rapidly from these moments of awkwardness, but they happened nonetheless. On the other hand their texting was a smooth business, flowing with ease.

Sometimes it was strange for her to think that they had become friends. They had barely exchanged words in their past life. She had been too shy and he had been too burdened. Not that he was unburdened now, she mused. 

“What is it, pet?” her mother's voice snapped her form her thoughts and she hummed in puzzlement at the question.

“You were frowning, Anne” she told her, stepping out on the balcony in all her height – Ori hadn't inherited that trait for her mother, that was certain. A flurry of her turquoise summer dress accompanied her mother's steps and she gave Ori one of her strange smiles and leaned on the railing. Her long blond curls bounced at the movement.

“I was thinking, mum” Ori replied sheepishly, closing “Samsara and the Soul” and placing it on the wicker table between her phone and the glass of iced tea.

“You always think.” her mother stated airily, placing her forearms on the concrete railing “Do not overdo yourself, pet. Thoughts can be a tricky thing.”

“I think several millennia worth of philosophy would disagree with you.” Ori told her with a chuckle and was about to add another dry jab when her mobile phone buzzed into life. She hastily unlocked the screen and opened Thorin's reply. And laughed. Grinning, she immediately began to type a response.

“Is he handsome?” her mother asked, interrupting her mid-word.

“What?” she spluttered, snapping her head up and looking at her mother in utmost confusion.

There was a twinkle in the older woman's grey eyes.

“The guy you've been texting with all summer. Is he handsome?” she elaborated with a wave of her long-fingered hand.

Ori just looked at her for a moment, dumbfounded at her inquiry and at the same time unsurprised. She should have expected it from her to ask something utterly nonsensical, she reasoned. It was typical for her mother.

“Why do you think it is a he?” she asked defensively unable to think of a reply.

Her mother cocked a blond eyebrow and grinned smugly, showing the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth.

“A girl? I didn't know you were into the fairer sex...” she began slowly.

“Oh for crying out loud, mum!” Ori exclaimed exasperated, while her mother smiled beatifically.

“What?” Janet asked seemingly innocently “I don't really care who you're attracted to...”

“I'm not attracted to him!” she told her mother, feeling her cheeks heat up at the preposterous notion. “Th... _John_ is just a friend” Ori said, nearly slipping her tongue.

Her mother hummed sceptically, looking at her with a knowing expression. She had the unique ability of looking off with the fairies and at the same time being _extremely_ attentive and cunning.

“He is, mum.” Ori stated firmly.

“Yes, yes, if you say so, pet.” she said placatively, then turned her whole body in her direction and asked conspiratorially “So, _is_ he handsome?”

“Mum!” she cried out.

She wasn't going to go down _that_ particular lane. Thorin was her friend _and_ her King and Ori had no business noticing that he was, in fact, very handsome, or anything. Not that she was going to share with her mother that particular insight. Janet already had her misguided notions about Thorin, namely that Ori was attracted to him, which was _utterly absurd_ , thank you very much. No, she didn't need to encourage her mother.

She shook her head with a frown.

“I'm going to bed, mum.” she told her before the older woman could pester her with more inanities – she had just opened her mouth and Ori dreaded what would follow in this particular conversation. She got up from the wicker chair she had been reclined in and scooped her belongings with her.

“Good night.” she said tersely and her mother chiming laughter reverberated in the heavy summer air.

“Sleep well, pet.” she said. Ori left the balcony and strode to her room with a heavy sigh. She was sweaty, bored and on top of it all he mother had _notions_. She almost groaned. Ori loved her dearly, but sometimes she was too much. Way too much.

 

The wipers swung furiously back and forth over the windscreen of his car, helpless against the downpour. It had started as drizzle a couple of miles out of Worthing and it had gotten increasingly worse the closer he had been getting to London.

Thunder clapped in the distance. The road was all but swallowed by the thick curtain of rain and the faint glow of rear lights ahead and the splashing sound of tyres on water were the only signs that Thorin wasn't alone on the road.

There was a strange peace in the apparent sensation of isolation from the world and his thoughts veered from the road ahead to the dull greyness of the Worthing sky that had been reflected in his Uncle's slightly vacant pale eyes that afternoon.

The old man had sat on a wooden bench in the care home's carefully kept garden, staring into nothingness. He hadn't visited him in a while and it had pained Thorin all over again to see him like that. The man who had given him his first proper football, who had taught him how to drive when he had been really too young to learn, who had given Thorin's mother a home for two children and her when Rosie's husband – his father – had left them, a housewife and two children.

He gripped the steering-wheel with force until his joints began to ache. Thorin refused to think about his father – _John's_ father, _Thorin_ had another sire and one who had stood and fought by his side against the dragon and later by Frerin's side...

He shook his head, focusing on the bleakness of the road behind the glass of the windscreen. The sound of the rain hitting against the metal of the roof was deafening and Thorin inhaled deeply, pushing away his thoughts about any of his fathers – one was too painful to think about and the other made his blood boil with a deep growling rage. He thought instead of Tony, his and Harriet's uncle, whose mind was being consumed by Alzheimer's. He felt a fierce fondness for the old wrinkled man who had been the pillar of their mother's strength. It was hard to see him reduced to a shadow of his former self. As equally hard it had been to decide to put him in a care home.

Hard but necessary. After the agonising years of caring for their dying mother until her passing, Harriet hadn't had the strength to take care of their Uncle as well and Thorin at the time had been just deployed in Iraq.

The sky was steadily darkening behind the shroud of rain and grim clouds, and the road was becoming even harder to discern. Thorin sighed. He wished sometimes things had taken a different course, especially with Harriet. He wished – but he also knew in the end it was nothing but worthless and dangerous musings – that he had acted like a true brother should have, supporting her through their mother's illness, but he hadn't been able to stay at home.

There had been a hard comfort in the martial discipline of the Army. There, amongst his fellow soldiers he had felt almost normal, almost in control. And it was ironic that the only moment he had been in control of his mind had been when he had relinquished the former to someone else, be it an officer or merely fate. The precariousness of his life had grounded him like nothing else had ever done – at least in this life.

And so Harriet had had to carry on alone with the burden of a terminally ill mother, a small child and an ex-husband who had been more trouble than support. He should have been there, but this life had always dragged him away from his sister, from anyone other than himself. He was a disappointment as a brother as he had been before. The only silver lining – as cowardly as it was – was that he had died before having to face Dís' disappointment, her _hatred._

His left hand lifted from the steering-wheel to run through his short hair and he swallowed before forcing his lungs to breathe. His thought weighed heavily on him. As his heartbeats slowed to a normal pace he wondered if there was ever going to be a moment of solitude in this life that would not summon pain and regrets. And the deepest contempt for himself.

Admittedly though, he reflected, the past year had been somewhat better in that regard, but that had been mostly Ori's doing. From the epiphany she had unwittingly prompted to her shyly cheerful nature Ori had lightened the past months.

He smiled. She made him _laugh_ , genuinely so and Thorin had trouble recalling how long it had been since he had felt that carefree. Before the Army surely, perhaps even before they had moved at Uncle Tony's. During his childhood in Islington?

He never got to answer his own question. The sudden blaring of a car-horn and a flash of light through the rain-streaked window was all his mind registered before the world collapsed in the screeching of brakes and the deafening sound of metal crumpling around him. A sharp pain engulfed him and a scream tore from his lips. Then nothing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not hate me... I mean well. *smiles sheepishly and hurriedly walks away to finish writing the next chapter and redeem herself*.
> 
> Chapter title taken from “Heart Of Gold” by Neil Young.


	5. And so they say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised. :)

“You have reached John Henry Smith. I cannot take your call at the moment...” Ori pressed the end button interrupting Thorin's recorded voice mid-sentence and she put the mobile phone down on the kitchen counter with a frown. The late morning sun shone through the small kitchen window leaving a trail of light on the cupboards. Ori watched it without really seeing while she thought about her latest failed attempt at reaching Thorin. She had been trying to call him for days, but every time she had dialled his number she had been immediately redirected to voice mail.

She shook her head. It was strange.

Pulling out of her thoughts she opened the fridge and leaned her elbow on the open door while she looked for the orange juice her mother had made before leaving for work. She stared at the crammed space full of what were mostly vegetables and bit her lip. She didn't want to make a fuss, but she couldn't help herself. She was worried. Ori knew it was silly, there could be a number of reasons for Thorin's mobile phone to be turned off. Logical reasons. And yet, no matter how strong the explanation she gave herself Ori couldn't push away the cold feeling that something was amiss.

She shook her head again and grabbed the glass jug she noticed hiding behind a plastic bag of lettuce. The fridge closed with the rattling of jars and bottles and Ori poured herself a glass of juice. She put the jug back and pulled out a kitchen chair, seating herself.

She needed to be rational about the whole thing. Ponder the facts.

Ori had last spoken with Thorin on Sunday morning, which had been five days before. It had been a brief thing, Thorin had been running late for the visiting hours at his uncle's care home in Worthing and he had promised to call her when he got back home. Only he didn't. And on Monday evening she had tried to get in touch with him, but ended up leaving him a message on his voice mail.

She thoughtfully looked at lumps of fruits swimming in the dark yellow juice in her glass. It was unusual for him to be unavailable at all, let alone for so long, but Ori had to admit to herself that five days was not such a long time after all. They had gone for longer periods of time without hearing each other.

She had tried calling him a couple of times after that and normally she wouldn't have insisted so much, but she needed to arrange her trip to London. It was almost mid-August and she needed to get the housing problem solved as soon as possible. There were so many things that needed to be done before the academic year began. And finding an apartment was only the first one. Once that was done she would have to bring all her belongings to London, acquaint herself with her neighbourhood – where will she buy her groceries? pay her bills? do her laundry? cut her hair? There was also the matter of learning her way around the public transportation system in London and finding the shortest route to uni. And that was only scratching the surface.

Ori put down the now empty glass of juice and tapped her fingers impatiently on the table. She had so many things to do. But this was the first summer in years without exams and Ori wanted to enjoy it. She had even contemplated to travel somewhere abroad, perhaps for her birthday which fell at the end of the month, but she had to keep an eye on her budget and unlike her mother she didn't enjoy travelling alone.

But that didn't mean she wasn't planning on making the best of it. There was an impressive pile of books that were waiting for her to read them and she wanted to bring order to her research about reincarnation. She hadn't been given many informations by Thorin. None in truth, since the topic of his death was the largest taboo in the lot - not that she had been forthcoming about hers either - but she had gathered some details from their conversations. Details that needed to be embedded in the theories she had formulated. She should have done it in the past months, but between her thesis and her last exams she had had zero time to properly devote herself to her research.

But before she did any of this, Ori had to resolve all the matters regarding her relocation. And for that she needed to get in touch with Thorin. Which got her right back at the start. He was unavailable. And she didn't have his number at home or work, nor his e-mail address, so the only thing she could do, save from appearing at his doorstep – thankfully she _had_ his address – was trying to call him in the vain hope he would answer. She sighed and glanced to her left, looking at her phone lying still on the counter where she had left it. All she could do was try and call him again, maybe in the evening, and hope this time he answered her call.

 

Harriet sat slumped in the hard plastic chair while her hand clutched her brother's almost bruisingly. Her jaw was rigidly set while she listened to the rhythmic beeping sound that accompanied his heartbeats. She was almost single-mindedly focused on it, scared it would change. It would _stop._ Harriet knew it was ridiculous, John was merely asleep, exhausted by the aftermath of anaesthesia and the pain in his freshly immobilised right leg. But fear was never rational.

She looked at him, eyes fastened on his slumbering form, limply lying under the white sheets. His chest raised and fell ever so faintly and if it hadn't been for the monitoring devices in the intensive care unit she could have pretended to be back in their childhood bedroom in Islington, five years old and watching her baby brother sleep. But there were no cartoon characters printed on the sheets and John was grown man.

A grown man with a driving licence and a very smashed Vectra, which was why she was currently sitting here instead of working on the Gallagher case. She flicked her loose hair behind her ear. She _should_ be working on it, it was going to be presented in court soon and the odds were not going in their favour. The defence had a strong case and the man was going to walk out unless they managed to make the evidence work in their favour. Harriet closed her eyes for a moment trying to push back the stress and exhaustion that was threatening to take over her. This couldn't have happened in a worse period.

She massaged her temples in a futile attempt to put the trembling she felt in her body under control.

It had started when she had arrived at the hospital late in evening on Sunday and it had grown increasingly worse in the next five days. Between her brother's initial lack of consciousness – which he had thankfully regained by the next afternoon – and the surgery three days later, she had hardly rested and her nerves were beyond taut. She had an urge to curse her brother and punch her fists on his chest while she screamed of his stupidity and recklessness – never mind he was blameless for the accident – but she did none of this things.

Harriet closed her eyes.

She wanted to, but she wouldn't. She never had, not even when he had returned from his last deploy in Iraq, chest tightly bandaged after his narrow escape from death. And she could have. Should have. If nothing, for all her sleepless nights while the doctors had fought for his life, surgery after surgery, mending the damage _seven_ bullets had done to his chest; or all the antacids she had swallowed when her pent up worry had began to manifest itself somatically, the grey hairs she had found on her temples in the months following his recovery.

But Harriet hadn't. And would never, no matter how much worry he was able to cause. It was one thing to reprimand him for his life choices - John was infuriatingly persistent in doing things his way, even when he knew it was wrong - but she didn't have the heart to tell him how it felt to cling to the hope that he would be all right, _really_ tell him how it was for her. It would hurt him. He wouldn't show it, but she knew her brother. He could snarl and glare as much as liked, but Harriet knew that underneath the hard exterior was the same curly-haired boy who had clung to his sister when his nightmares had plagued his sleep.

They may had drifted away in the past years but Harriet knew her brother loved her. It was one of the few constants she had in the whirlwind that was her life. And even if she would never burden him with that knowledge, the thought of losing him was unbearable.

It had been horrible beyond description to get that phone call form the hospital. After hastily packing some clothes and a toothbrush Harriet had driven to London like a fury through the rain. It had been foolish in hindsight, what with the slippery tarmac and the poor visibility, but at the time it hadn't mattered. The thought of her brother being injured had been the only thing on her mind.

The doctor had told her later, after John had been stabilised and had regained consciousness, that he was expected to make a full recovery. Once they placed the broken pieces of his tibia and fibula back together, that was. She hadn't been happy to learn he had to undergo surgery, but the bones in his right shin had been smashed by the impact of the other car.

They had operated him that morning and his leg was now secured in a cast. They told her it might be a day or two before John was well enough to return to his home in Harrow. So all she could do was wait and try to remain calm.

She needed to call the office and see if she could take a few more weeks off, as unlikely as it was. John would have to rest for his bones to heal properly. Not to mention the bruised ribs that already made moving a painful thing for him. He hadn't said anything of course. The little she had been able to talk to him he had insisted he was fine and she had resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

But he needed help and she was the only family he had. She considered taking him to Cardiff with her and already braced herself for the inevitable discussion. But he couldn't be left on his own in the state he was.

She shook her head. Of course someone _could_ be hired to do the job, but the idea of John agreeing to it was laughable at best. He would never admit he needed help.

Harriet pinched the bridge of her nose. It was going to be an interesting couple of days.

 

Thorin sat on the sofa with his leg perched on a cushion. He was idly flicking through the channels on the telly, trying to ignore the pounding headache along with the acute pain in his leg. The painkillers he had been prescribed would do the trick, but he was reluctant to take them since they made him feel drowsy and unsettled his stomach. Which in turn made him more irritable than he already was.

He felt useless. Even in the most basic human things like the ability of getting up from the sofa and refilling the currently empty glass of water placed on the coffee table. Oh, he had his crutches, but with his mind still fuzzy from the concussion and the side-effects of the painkillers he had the gait of a drunkard. It had been enough to hit his side on the door-frame once for Thorin to learn that he was either going to take his painkillers or move around the house.

Of course, his sister had berated him every time she had seen him move, her voice rising to a high pitch that did nothing to improve his mood or his headaches. He couldn't move around the house, couldn't do anything really but sit in his living room, feeling useless and utterly, profoundly _bored._ He hadn't sat idly at home for longer than he cared to remember. His work took a large portion of his days and there was always something to do at home, between fixing things and keeping it tidy so the weekends usually flew by.

And then in the past months there had been Ori, who had taken the most of what little time he had to spare – not that he minded. He was more than glad to have earned her friendship, unexpected as it was.

He smiled.

Sometimes he wondered how he had managed to spend half a year of his past life in Ori's presence without noticing his scribe's brilliant mind and witty retorts. Talking to her was often the brightest spot of his days and not just because at this point in John's life he was hardly cultivating a friendship with anyone else. He hadn't been feeling sociable in years and he didn't miss it. But Ori was someone he just enjoyed having around, talking to.

Now that he thought about it, Thorin realised he hadn't heard from her in a while. They hadn't been in touch since before the accident – wretched things that it was – when he had... When he had told her he would call her. He cursed his forgetfulness. And frowned. Knowing her she should have called him by now, she _had_ wanted to talk about something, but he hadn't had the time. It was strange. Worrisome.

He rummaged through his pockets looking for his mobile phone. He needed to see what was happening. The search proved fruitless, his phone wasn't there. Turning his head towards the coffee table he didn't see it there either. Where had he put it?

The rapid ticking sound of a keyboard in the background reminded him Harriet was at the kitchen table in the once-adjacent room that had been connected to the living room after removing a wall. Lifting himself up he saw her sitting in front of her laptop, furiously typing something and he asked loudly

“Hat, have you seen my mobile phone?” she looked up, her fingers pausing above the keyboard.

“Your mobile phone?” she frowned for a second and then widened her eyes slightly

“I had forgotten about that.” she murmured half-surprised, then said with her usual terseness “You won't be using that one any time soon.”

“What do you mean?” he asked with a frown.

“It was in your door's accessory pocket. I've been told it's beyond repair.” she told him and got back to her typing. Then she added without looking up ”I'll get you a new one before we leave for Cardiff.”

It took a moment for his mind to process the information. He brushed away his sister's conviction that he would go to Cardiff with her and concentrated on the first part of what she had said. His phone was smashed. It was a disaster.

“What about my number?” he asked sharply “My contacts”

“You'll get the same number you had. And you can get your contacts from your backup.” she told him simply, shrugging off his concern.

He looked at her, blinking. He didn't have a backup copy of his contacts. He had never bothered doing one because Roberts had all the contacts he might need in his address book and Harriet's numbers were on a business card he kept inside his wallet in case of emergencies. But Ori's number had been saved _only_ in his mobile phone.

It was a complete disaster. How was he going to contact her?

Biting back a colourful array of curses he leaned back on the sofa with a groan. He could only hope she would call or text him.

“Can you do it sooner?” he asked Harriet, trying to keep the bite away from his voice.

She looked at him briefly and shook her head.

“I have work to do. I'll go tomorrow if it's really so urgent.”

It was urgent.

But not so much after all, he reasoned with a scowl. He _could_ wait another day. He was already imposing on his sister's time.

Thorin massaged his aching temples. He would wait.

 

Soft footsteps drew Ori's attention from the book she was half-heartedly reading and she lifted her eyes to meet her mother's.

“Mum.” Ori greeted her tepidly and her mother shot her a worried look, blond eyebrows knitting together. She entered her room and manoeuvred around the cardboard boxes that covered the small bedroom's floor.

“Have you been fighting with your _friend?_ ” she asked.

Ori shifted on her chair with a confused shake of her light ginger hair. Her mother had sat herself on Ori's bed and looked at her in motherly concern. Fighting? She chose to forgo her mother inflection of the word “friend”.

“Why do you _always_ have these random questions, mum?” Ori asked her, blinking. Her mother just smiled.

“It's not random, pet.” she told her in her usual airy tone, then switching to a graver one “You have been glaring at your phone the whole week”

Ori grimaced and looked at the small device placed on her desk atop a pile of papers.

“I haven't been glaring.” Ori told her tried to defend herself meekly. Worry gnawed at her. Thorin was still unavailable and Ori had no idea what to do.

“Oh, alright.” she said with a sigh “If you must know I haven't heard from John since Sunday.” she began.

Janet sat calmly while Ori explained about her plans for her trip to London and her relocation, how Thorin had offered her his guest room and how she hadn't been able to reach him for days. It was good to vent her frustrations and concerns, to talk to Janet. Dori may had been Ori's parent in all but name, but the youngest sibling had never been able to talk to him like that. With Nori, yes, but only to a degree and he had always tried to shield Ori from the world. Janet on the other hand was entirely different. She always let her speak, patiently listening to her before offering any advice.

Ori breathed. It was truly good to talk. It felt like a weight was being slowly lifted from her shoulders.

When she finished speaking her mother simply asked

“Have you tried contacting him otherwise?” tilting her head slightly, so her long blond locks bounced. Ori shook her head

“I only have his mobile phone number and home address.” she told her dejectedly and hung her head.

There was really nothing she could do but persist. Sooner or later he was bound to turn on his phone.

Unless something happened to him.

Biting her lip, she pushed away the thought. She was sure there was a good reason for this. There had to be.

Her mother clapped her hands together startling her.

“Well then.” she exclaimed happily. She was sporting a large smile and Ori frowned in apprehension. It never bade well. “Do you want me to book you a train ticket for today or do you prefer tomorrow?”

Ori blinked, looking at the older woman with that peculiar sense of resigned puzzlement only her mother was able to evoke.

“What are you talking about?” she asked carefully. The older woman raised from the bed and walked to where Ori was sitting, hands folded in her lap.

“No point in worrying yourself sick, pet. Go to London and see what's happened.” her mother told her as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Ori blinked. Go to London?

Not that it didn't make sense. It did, but she _couldn't_ just appear out of the blue on his doorstep. It was rude and Ori told her mother so. She couldn't just impose her presence. He had invited her, that was true, but she should at least announce her arrival. That would be the minimum of polite behaviour, if Dori was to be trusted. She couldn't.

Her mother gave her a strange smile and merely squeezed her shoulder in affection.

“As you wish Anne.” she told her calmly and Ori closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them Janet was already walking out of the room and Ori opened her mouth. She hesitated a moment. Then, making her mind she said

“Tomorrow, then.”

Her mother beamed at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “For Everything A Reason” by Carina Round.


	6. But I'm going to be here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In London.

Ori emerged from the underground station and adjusted the straps of her rucksack. They rubbed on the skin of her shoulders, sticky with perspiration. Out on the street the heat was nearly unbearable. The sky was overcast and there was a heaviness in the air that promised rain. Ori wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand and drank a generous amount of water from a plastic bottle. Her feet were blistering in her new sandals but she forced them to move, walking away from the tube station and into the general direction of Thorin's street.

She was still unconvinced about this trip to London. It had been a spur of the moment decision and Ori hadn't had the time to properly ponder her course of action until she had been well aboard the train. During the two hours ride to Paddington station she had bitten her lip sore while all the pros and the cons, and all the various scenarios had twirled around her head. And all the while she had worried.

Ori had tried to call Thorin twice that day - early in the afternoon before she had been hugged goodbye by her mother and exited the book-store Janet worked at, and later after she had arrived in London – but both times it was his recorded voice that had greeted her.

Well, she mused, this was it. She would find out what was going on soon enough.

If he was at home, that was. She didn't know what time he usually returned from work. But Ori was prepared to sit on his doorstep and wait until he made his appearance. She may have not been sure it was the best way to go, appearing unannounced at his doorstep, but she was not going to turn craven. Ori was genuinely worried about him and she needed to make sure he was all right.

Even if it took throwing politeness out of the window.

Dori would be appalled with her, she thought. Ori still remembered how horrified her eldest brother had been when Bilbo had told them their gathering in his hobbit-hole had been entirely unannounced and most certainly unexpected. And Gandalf had been to blame. Ori was still sure had the person responsible for such a slight been anyone but the Wizard, they would have gotten a tongue-lashing of the likes Nori had been usually subjected to.

Ori smiled morosely, feeling a pang of longing at the memory.

It had been one of the good moments, when they hadn't been in any imminent danger and had been able to rest, even if only for a short while. She remembered how their hobbit had fumbled with his words, afraid to ruin the tentative friendship that had been budding between him and the rest of the Company, and how he had worked himself to a righteous anger by the time he had been finished, only to flush and slump his shoulders in embarrassment once he realised the tone he had been using. A long moment of silence had ensued before the scoffs and shouts of outrage had reverberated in the air, Dori the most vocal in spite of the polite gentleness of his voice.

She missed them all so much. Dori and Nori, but also the rest of the Company. In those long months of travelling across Middle Earth they had been almost like an extended family for Ori.

She shook her head, pushing away the memories. They were gone, but Thorin was still here and she had to find his home.

She took another gulp of lukewarm water that did little to quench her thirst and looked at her surroundings trying to match them with the map she had studied before leaving Bristol. There were red-brick buildings in all shapes and sizes, mostly terraced or semi-detached the closer she got to the properly residential area. The traffic grew lesser and there were trees and bushes planted on the sides of the road. She found she quite like it, the russet façades sharp in contrast with the green of the leaves even in the gloomy overcast sky.

After a short while she reached the street she was looking for and she slowed down. As she looked for the right house Ori observed the orderly neighbourhood. The lawns were carefully kept, flowers and shrubbery were planted along the edges of the driveways, and the odd front garden sported a tree or two shielding the house from the street. Ori liked it and she was sure she would have enjoyed it even more if there weren't a knot of nervousness pulling tight around her chest.

By the time she had reached Thorin's driveway her palms were sweating and she wiped them on the sides of her purple skirt. She stood in the front garden of the single-story detached house and hesitated. The curtains on the ground floor bay window were pulled, but there was a car parked to her left and Ori concluded he must be home.

Biting her lip she crossed the front garden and rung the bell.

  
  


Someone was at the door.

Harriet huffed in frustration and got up from the kitchen chair, carefully putting away the folder with the copy of the Gallagher case. She walked through the living room and saw her brother reach for his crutches. She stopped him.

“I'll get the door.” she told him curtly and he slumped back on the sofa, clearly unhappy. He had been particularly difficult the past two days, especially after she had returned that morning with his new mobile phone and told him the battery needed to be fully charged before he could use it for the first time.

She shook her head, striding towards the door.

Harriet opened the door and her eyes fell on a short woman – girl, judging by the smoothness of her freckled face – who was standing on the doorstep, ginger hair stuck to her forehead from the heat. She was looking at Harriet with wide dark eyes and opened her mouth to speak, but no sound was coming forth.

“How can I help you?” Harriet asked the stranger tersely. She had no time to waste, there was a case waiting for her.

“Hello.” the younger woman said, flushing, then shyly asked “Is John at home?”

Then she quietly added, fidgeting with her hands.

“I'm Anne, his friend.”

Harriet felt on of her eyebrows rise on its own accord. She eyed the girl critically, taking in her knitted top and linen skirt, complete with leather rucksack on her back. John's friend? How long had it been since he had mentioned any friend? Decades? Not that he told her anything, much. They both kept their lives very private after all. But Harriet couldn't contain her bafflement at having this girl claim she was his friend.

Still, she had been raised with better manners than letting any potential guest stand in that ungodly heat. It was going to rain any moment.

“Do come in then.” she told her and let her in the pleasant chill of the air-conditioned house “I'm Harriet” she told her.

  
  


“John, you have a visitor.” his sister's voice called from the doorway and he grabbed his crutches, getting up from the sofa. He bit back a groan at the pain in his leg and took a moment to find his balance before making his way towards the living room's door.

“In here” Harriet told to whomever had come and Thorin had a moment to wonder who could it be, before a familiar figure appeared in the doorway, looking slightly dishevelled and lip caught between her teeth.

“Ori?” he said with a frown of puzzlement, feeling a smile creep on his lips. He shook his head in disbelief. What was she doing here?

Her eyes lifted from the carpet and she did a double take when she saw him, her nervous smile falling, replaced by a frown of her own.

“Th...John, what happened to you?!” she asked him with her brown eyes impossibly wide.

“I had a car accident on the way back from Worthing.” he told her simply, and watched her flushed face pale. Her eyes widened even more.

“Are... are you alright?” she asked him, voice thick with concern.

“I'm fine.” he told her.

“Really?” she inquired sceptically, eyes travelling to his cast. He was about to retort something but Harriet strode into the living room and shot him a disapproving look

“You shouldn't be standing, John.” his sister scolded him and he glared a her. But she was right of course. It hurt to stand too much and he felt the harbingers of another headache, but he wasn't going to tell her as much.

“Can I get you something?” she asked Ori “Tea? Coffee?”

“Tea, please. Thank you” Ori replied shyly. Harriet nodded and strode toward the kitchen.

“Sit, please.” he told Ori and she sat down on one of the armchairs, her large concerned eyes never leaving him. Her hands were curled in her lap while he walked back to the sofa he had vacated mere minutes before. She was worrying her lip raw and for the first time in a while Thorin didn't know what to tell her. They had had their awkward silences before, but for months now they had been able to talk with only the occasional hiccup that would be brushed away as quickly as it came.

“What happened?” she asked, at last breaking the silence. “The accident, I mean.”

“I was driving in a downpour and my car got hit by another car that had lost traction.” he told her, repeating the explanation he had been given by Harriet in the hospital. Ori nodded, wide eyed, but didn't say anything. “I'm fine, Ori. Or at least I'll be in a couple of weeks. Don't worry.”

“Is your leg broken?” she asked and he nodded, choosing not to go into details, Ori was worried enough. And it made him uneasy to see the usually smiling younger woman sporting a look he had seen before and never in good times. His mind supplied him with images of dark torch-lit tunnels filled with goblin cackle and he banished the memory, running his fingers through his short hair.

“What brings you to London?” he asked her, trying to convey the curiosity he truly felt rather than the lingering unease from recalling that particular memory – it had began plaguing his dreams of late and to his dismay he had gradually recovered the full memory of the goblin tunnels.

“Well, it's a bit silly,” she said, not looking at him “I've been trying to call you for over a week, but every time I called I got redirected to voice mail and well, I got a bit worried, so...” she trailed.

Ori spoke feeling a mixture of feelings she couldn't untangle. There was the concern she had been harbouring for the past week that had increased tenfold now that she knew he _was_ hurt but there was also an undertone of relief knowing he could have been injured far worse. The memories from _that_ battle came unbidden and she remembered her King's pallor, marred by dried blood and the utter stillness of his body. It had been horrible. Ori always disliked to remembered that day, but thinking about it when he sat on the charcoal sofa in front of her with a fading bruise on his temple and a leg in a cast, when he winced – almost imperceptibly, but she still noticed – whenever he moved; it was unbearable.

She swallowed the lump that had her breath stuck inside her lungs and lifted her eyes from her lap. Thorin observed her with a strange expression, dark eyebrows knit and sky-blue eyes unreadable.

She was looking at him with those large brown eyes of hers and Thorin felt the barbed wire of guilt bite into his chest. Ori had come all the way from Bristol because she had been concerned. She had tried to reach him for a whole week and had worried about him. And he, he had remembered Ori only when utter boredom had pushed his mind down that lane, the day before.

“I'm truly sorry.” he told her gravely “My old mobile phone is dead. Harriet got me a new one this morning”

Ori nodded and gave him a small smile.

“I didn't know how to contact you.” she told him looking at him from beneath her red-blonde eyebrows “You don't suppose you could give me, I don't know, your phone number at home. Or something else. Just in case...”

“Of course.” he told her firmly and she smiled properly.

The sound of footsteps preceded Harriet's entrance. Thorin's sister strode in their direction in all her height, a tray in hand. She placed it on the the coffee table offering Ori a teacup, eyeing her carefully. Ori squirmed under her gaze. The older woman had a pair of blue eyes uncannily similar to Thorin's, both in colour and intensity.

“So, Anne,” she said after a fashion “John made no mention of you.”

She looked at her brother. And Ori was glad for a reprieve from her gaze. Thorin's sister made her uneasy. Ori felt like she was under a scrutiny of some sort and it was unnerving. Thorin, on the other hand seemed immune to her look and simply replied

“I don't see why I should have told you about her”

Harriet pursed her lips in displeasure.

“Fine, have it your way.” she told Thorin and Ori could feel the tension between the two. There were unspoken words that she suspected they were not uttering because she was there. Cutting words if the way they were glaring at one another was any clue.

“We've known each other for quite some time” Ori told Harriet, interrupting the siblings' staring contest. Thorin's sister raised her eyebrow again, but this time in genuine curiosity and Ori smiled tentatively at the sharp-faced woman. She tilted her dark blond head and after a moment of deliberation she sat herself on the second armchair.

“Weren't you complaining of how much work you have to do?” Thorin asked tersely, but Ori could tell there was no real venom in his voice.

“I do, but it's been years since I've met any of your friends.” Harriet told him and Thorin narrowed his eyes, then she turned her gaze to Ori.

“What is it that you do?” she asked the younger woman, trying to solve the ginger-haired puzzle that sat in John's living room.

“I'm starting my Master's this Autumn.” Anne told her “Medieval and Renaissance Studies at UCL”

A humanities student. Harriet observed her critically. The girl almost stuttered in embarrassment when she spoke to her, a flush spreading on her freckled cheeks and her hands fidgeting in her lap. And yet, on contrast, she had seemed at ease talking to her brother whilst Harriet was in the kitchen.

Her brother. In this strange late afternoon his behaviour was the most curious thing.

He seemed _happy_.

Not just lacking his usual brooding discontent, but rather sincerely smiling with his eyes, if not with his lips. And the way he held himself, he seemed almost _relaxed._ His shoulders weren't squared defensively and he wasn't looking at the younger woman from under his dark eyebrows. No, he was looking at Anne the way he had used to look at his family when he had been a small boy.

Harriet was baffled. She had forgotten his eyes could hold that kind of warmth. It had been decades since she had last seen that look. But there was something else there, a shade in those blue orbs she couldn't pinpoint. Something she had never seen there.

A _softness_? Harriet shook her head almost imperceptibly. Using that adjective to describe anything related to her brother was simply wrong. And yet she couldn't find a better word.

“John's told me a bit about you.” the younger woman interrupted her train of thought “You work for the Crown prosecutor, right?”

“Correct.” she replied curtly “I'm a solicitor.”

The girl nodded and the conversation came to a lull with Harriet failing to supply any additional information about her job. John was sitting silent on the sofa and he was eyeing Harriet carefully.

She glanced in the direction of the kitchen where her files were strewn on the kitchen table – a habit she had developed when she had been in school and there hadn't been any desks in this home. She really had to get back to her case, the hearing was getting closer. And, besides, Harriet had a feeling her presence was a hindrance.

“I apologise, but I'm afraid my brother is not mistaken in reminding me I have work to do.” she told Anne and the latter gave her a shy smile.

“It's alright.” she told her “I'm... I'm glad to have had the chance to talk to you.”

“Likewise.” Harriet replied tilting her head in a nod “I _would_ have more time if I were able to go to work instead of being in London” she said with a tinge of venom, turning her eyes towards her brother.

“You are free to leave any time you want.” Thorin told her sister, feeling a mild irritation. Why did she have to be so stubborn?

“I'm not leaving you alone in this state.” she told him for the umpteenth time and he nearly growled.

“I'm not going to Cardiff.” he replied in a voice far more level than it would normally be. But Ori was sitting there, looking at them with her brown eyes wide and he wasn't going to lose his temper if he could help it.

“How many times do we need to have this discussion?” Harriet asked him, a tinge of exasperation in her voice.

“None.” he replied tersely “I'm not going anywhere.”

He watched his sister pinch the bridge of her nose.

“You can't be on your own until your leg heals.” she told him with forced patience.

“I'm perfectly fine on my own.” his own voice sounded petulant to him and in truth Thorin recognised his sister _had_ a point. He wasn't able to move around much and her help had been precious in the past week, but he had no intention of staying at her home. There was no way before Thorin was going to live under the same roof as his second brother-in-law. None. Stuart was insufferable.

“No you're not.” Harriet told him, with her bony hand on her hip. He opened his mouth to retort something but Ori's voice caught his attention.

“Um... I could stay.” she told him shyly “I mean you already invited me over, right? And I could help you around the house while I look for an apartment. If you want, that is.”

“I couldn't ask that of you, O...Anne.” he told her, nearly slipping his tongue. “I invited you as a guest...”

“You did, but your sister is right.” she interjected “And if you need help I'll give you a hand.” she told him firmly, nodding in emphasis and Thorin was reminded of a young scribe coming to his throne room in Blue Mountains, insisting to join his quest despite being just a little older than his nephews and, unlike them, having no weapon training at all. Ori had looked at him with the same stubborn conviction she was currently sporting - Dwalin had called it steel and he had found himself humming in agreement at the term – leaving him with little choice. He had asked for loyalty, honour and a willing heart and the youngest son of Miri had offered all.

She still did, didn't she?

He hated having to depend on others and he would never ask her help, but she was offering it. And deep down he knew he needed it.

Harriet was looking at them with her blonde eyebrow arched high, a look of mild disbelief on her sharp-edged face and Ori was still levelling him with her steely look of determination.

Thorin exhaled a deep breath.

“Are you sure?” he asked her and Ori nodded firmly.

“Yes.”

“Then I'm afraid I'll have to accept your offer.” he told her bowing his head “Thank you.”

“It's the least I can do.” Ori told him beaming at him and Thorin couldn't help but give her a small smile, to his sister's evident astonishment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank you guys for all your comments and support so far, you make writing this fic a pleasure. :) 
> 
> Chapter title taken from “Always Gold” by Radical Face.


	7. There's a light yet to be found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The present and the past.

 

“In here.” Harriet told her curtly, opening the light wooden door of the guest-room and ushering her inside. “Come down once you're settled so I can show you around the house.” she added and Ori nodded.

“Thank you.” she said and Harriet gave her a look.

“I think it's you that I should thank.” she told her tersely before walking away. Ori frowned and shook her head at Thorin's older sibling's antics.

It was strange how similar the two of them were. While she looked at the retreating form of Thorin's current sibling, Ori couldn't help but wonder what kind of person his other sister had been - Princess Dís.

Ori _had_ seen her, first in the Blue Mountains and later in Erebor, but it had always been fleetingly and Ori had never been close enough to be able to judge her character, let alone interact with her. Before the quest Ori had been merely a scribe's apprentice, nowhere important enough to warrant the Princess' attention, and afterwards... Ori sighed sadly. Afterwards the dwarrowdam had been so torn by grief she had hardly spoken to anyone, stoically bearing the pain of being left completely alone in the world.

Ori felt a lump in her throat rise at the memory of the aftermath, of the _peace_. Closing her eyes for a second she tried to compose herself and put down her luggage on the carpet.

As an aspiring historian Ori knew every portion of the past was equally important, but somehow there were parts, like those, she wholeheartedly wished she could commit to oblivion. But she couldn't and it was her duty to be objective. There was no one else left to write the history of their people. Just her and her King, whose memories where either broken or carefully hidden – she couldn't tell – but regardless of the reason, he offered little insight in their shared past. Especially on the most important portions of it – the most painful ones for her, let alone for _him._

She shook her head. Now wasn't the time to ponder the past or her King's memories. She had luggage to unpack and a house to be shown before Harriet could leave for Cardiff.

Ori opened her trolley case and began extracting her belongings, putting them on the bed for the time being so she could properly organise them before putting them away, either in the wardrobe or the night-stand.

She set to work and it took her some time to take out all her clothes. Before she had left for Bristol on the rainy evening of her impromptu visit, Harriet had told her Thorin was supposed to wear his cast for at least four weeks, so Ori had packed accordingly.

In truth, Thorin had stressed Ori was not bound in any way to stay that long, but she was determined to stay for as long as her help was needed, regardless of the results of her apartment hunting. Ori would cross that bridge once she reached it, but she was more than ready to pay a couple of weeks' worth of rent for a vacant apartment, while she stayed there.

Her mother had agreed with her and had even offered to bring Ori additional books or clothing should she need them, but she had turned down Janet's offer. There would be no need. She had spent the entirety of her ride back to Bristol carefully composing a list of all the things she could potentially need for a month away from home.

She extracted the final item of clothing and revealed the cotton bags full of books she had lined the bottom of her trolley case with. She gingerly took them out and placed them on the bed as well, looking around the room for a suitable lodging.

The night-stand was too small and there wasn't a desk, but the windowsill seemed large enough and if she stacked them smartly she would be able to open the sash widow without the risk of her books falling down into the rear garden.

She smiled, that would be good.

  


Three days after Ori's arrival Thorin was ascending the stairs slowly. Once he reached the landing he paused, giving a moment of respite to his throbbing leg before he moved towards the door to his study.

His former bedroom. The light wooden door reminded him of the decade it had served that purpose for him. A decade of absence, mostly and troubled dreams. It had taken him years after his mother's death to find the courage to move her things. And now his old bedroom was a study and he slept in the master bedroom. But the troubled dreams still remained.

Shaking his head he forced his body into motion, throwing a glance to the guest-room's door reminiscing the brief time it had served as Harriet's room, before the latter had gotten married and moved to Cardiff

He opened the door to his study and hobbled towards the desk, sitting down on the padded chair. He leaned his crutches on the edge of the plywood desk and pressed the button to turn on the computer.

While it started up Thorin cast a glance at the empty plastic container where he usually put the paperwork and bills that needed taking care of. He grimaced. Apparently he had done everything that needed doing and paid every single bill, and until the next ones came there was nothing to do.

The screen came to life and he took the mouse, clicking on his e-mail client's icon. There were countless messages in his in-box and he scrolled down to read them from the oldest.

He knew that Roberts had copies – every message Thorin received on his official e-mail address was automatically forwarded to his P.A. - and would send them to whoever was in charge of his work while he was on leave, but he wanted to read them nonetheless. He needed to be up-to-date.

Thorin missed his job. While he _did_ enjoy the reprieve from the unseemly amount of workload he had been drowned in before the accident, he couldn't wait to take the cast off and get back to work.

He wasn't used to do nothing. It had been liberating to fix himself lunch earlier that day – Ori was out looking for an apartment – even if his leg had achingly complained of the amount of standing he had been forced into while cooking. But it had been good to do something constructive. Anything.

Thorin had never been idle. It was against his very nature. Even in the brightest moments of his past life he had never had time for boredom. He remembered clearly how there had always been something to do, some way to contribute to the well being of his people, of his family, in spite of his age.

And he had been young.

He breathed through his nose.

Young and foolish to think anything could last forever.

Unbidden came the memory of dragon-fire and he pushed it back, the reverberating sound of screaming and the smell of smoke and _charred_... No. He couldn't. He closed his eyes, forcing his lungs to inhale and exhale. The burning iron coil in his chest eased its grip and he ran a hand through his hair.

Thorin knew he had to steer clear from those memories, fragmented as they were. Thirty years and some more of repressing them had made them hard to reach, but his mind was treacherous. More so since Ori had made him see the truthfulness of his memories – and made him talk about them. Oh, she didn't get anywhere close the forbidden ones, but even talking about the innocuous ones managed to evoke the recollections of things he would rather forget.

Memories that plagued his dreams, twisting them into nightmares. And lately it had grown worse. He had too much time on his hands. Too much time to think.

And feel useless.

He abhorred it, the feeling of being a weight. It had been bad enough to have to ask Harriet for every single thing he needed done or brought to him. It had been frustrating, but Ori made his feeling of uselessness increase tenfold.

His sister had been dismissive and too busy to do more than the minimum necessary – he could tell she had an important case, she had had the tell-tale manic glint of determination in her blue eyes he had seen whenever she had been hellbent on victory.

But not Ori. In the three days she had been staying here so far, she had dedicated herself to the task with her trademark meticulousness, not only helping him and cooking, but also painstakingly keeping his home pristine.

She had been hoovering, wiping and polishing every available surface, cleaning the cleanable and washing the washable, and save from the occasional book left lying where she had been reading it, brought his house to a level of tidiness it hadn't seen since his mother had fallen ill.

Not that he had been slacking before the car accident, he hadn't. He had kept his house in order, but Ori was thorough.

He wasn't complaining, but he couldn't help feeling guilty for sitting idle while she did all the work. Especially since she was supposed to use her time looking for a home.

Like she was thankfully doing now.

The e-mail client's interface looked at him and Thorin found he had didn't have any interest in reading about financial indicators and ministerial policies on that particular afternoon. After all, he had at least three weeks of idleness ahead. He decided to leave the brunt of the correspondence for future reading and shut his computer down.

He took his crutches, lifting himself from the padded chair and he slowly made his way out of his study and into the landing.

He looked at the stairs he had to descend and heaved a sigh. It was going to take a while to get to the ground floor. He had time, he thought again, grimacing. Plenty of time. Thorin only hoped Ori wouldn't return in the meanwhile. She was as bad as Harriet in her disapproval of him moving around the house. But unlike Harriet she didn't scold him. No, she would just give him that _look_ of hers, part concern, part disapproval, with a tinge of disappointment in it– a look Dori had been wont to wear, he recalled - and he would feel guilty about doing something he had no reason to feel guilt about.

He squared his jaw and put his crutches on the step below, his left leg following.

  


It was early on the fourth morning since her first attempt at finding an apartment in London, way too early to be up. Ori opened the door of the guest-room and trudged drowsily down the stairs, hardly seeing where she was going. She made her way into the kitchen with a yawn and her hand had taken hold of the kettle before she even registered it. She put the water to boil and leaned her forehead on the cupboard, waiting.

“Good morning.” Thorin's voice startled her and she nearly jumped, pivoting her body, while her right hand flew to her heart.

“What are you doing up this early?” he asked her, sitting at the kitchen table, mug in hand, with a look of humour under his slightly raised eyebrows. His crutches were placed against the back of a chair and he seemed wide awake. Once her heart stopped threatening to burst out of her ribcage from the shock she found her voice.

“Good morning.” she told him sleepily “I didn't see you.”

“Yes, I noticed.” he replied dryly, a smirk on his lips.

Blinking, Ori took the kettle and poured the water over the teabag in her own mug and sat herself down at the table. She stifled a yawn before finding her voice again

“There is this apartment I'd like see in Bexleyheath and the landlady told me to come in the morning.” she told Thorin.

“Bexleyheath?” he frowned. “That will take you almost two hours to get there.”

“I know.” she told him, nodding. That was the exact reason why she was up at dawn “Why are _you_ up at this hour?” she asked him, stifling another yawn.

He looked at her for a moment before speaking

“I've spent too many years in the Army.” he replied in lieu of an explanation. She nodded. It made sense. She had noticed he was always up before her, she just hadn't thought he woke up _so_ early.

She took out the teabag, added the generous amount of sugar she favoured and some milk before stirring. Half a cup of tea later her mind had slowly begun functioning and soon enough she was fixing them both a proper breakfast.

An hour afterwards Ori was waiting for the bus that would take her to the tube station.

It was a twenty minutes walk from Thorin's home to the station in South Harrow and in the past week she had never taken the bus, but she had very little time to waste on that particular morning if she wished to see her potential home. The one place she had seen so far hadn't been to her liking – in truth the _place_ had, but the price not really, there was only so much she could afford with her budget, after all.

The bus arrived, interrupting her thoughts and she boarded it.

She mused on her stay at Thorin's. It had taken her a couple of days to get used to staying there, to get used to each other's schedules, especially with the added bonus of Thorin's tendentially foul mood – she could tell he was unused to sit still and it grated on his nerves, although he _tried_ to be as civil as he could, she thought wryly – but after a whole week they had managed to settle into a tentative routine.

A routine that hadn't included looking for a home. There was so much to do around his house - the house wasn't untidy per se, but Ori was meticulous - and between cleaning and cooking and spending hours to no end talking to Thorin, she hadn't been able fully dedicate to her search for an apartment yet.

She sighed and noticed the bus was nearing her destination, so she got up from her seat and moved towards the exit.

She would be sorry to leave his home, but even if this apartment in Bexleyheath was the one, she still had over a fortnight of helping Thorin.

The bus came to a halt and she walked out and towards the underground station.

  


Thorin sat on his customary spot on the sofa, his injured leg perched atop a cushion placed on the coffee table. He was staring at the blank screen of the telly he had just turned off. There hadn't been anything remotely interesting on it and if he was forced to watch another talk show or, even worse, _reality show_ , he was fairly certain the remote control that was currently lying on the sofa would _accidentally_ fly into the screen of the television.

He nearly growled in frustration. It was too early to go to sleep and the idea of tossing between the sheets of his bed was as tempting as the notion of calling his brother-in-law to have a lengthy chat about golf – which apparently was the only subject Stuart had an opinion about.

Normally - at least in the past week – Thorin's evenings would have been spent talking to Ori, but she was fast asleep and he could hardly blame her. She had looked thoroughly exhausted when she had returned home late in the afternoon from her trip to Bexleyheath. Exhausted and unhappy.

Ori had told him the apartment she had gone to see had been subpar and proceeded to give him a lengthy description of the dingy basement the landlady passed as an apartment.

Despite having hoped for her sake that the apartment in question would be good enough, Thorin hadn't been able to stop himself from feeling slightly relieved when she had told him how much she had loathed the place. Bexleyheath was on the other side of London and had she moved there he would have ended up seeing her as often as he had when she had lived in Cardiff.

He knew it was selfish on his part. Ori would have to leave sooner or later anyway. But Thorin couldn't help but hope she moved somewhere closer to Harrow. He had gotten used to seeing her every day and the thought of getting back to texting and calling each other, with the occasional visit every couple of months, made him unhappy.

He shook his head.

She had to do what was best for her.

Thankfully Bexleyheath wasn't that.

He leaned back on the sofa. With the corner of the eye he noticed the books she had left on the armchair she usually sat and – from sheer boredom, in truth – stretched his arm to pick it up.

It was a small paperback volume titled “The Cycle of Souls” by Klaus Weber. Thorin lifted an eyebrow but opened it nonetheless, mindful not to let Ori's bookmark slip out of it and began reading it.

The next morning Ori got up later than she was used to. It was almost ten o'clock when she walked into the kitchen, stretching the kinks in her back. Thorin wasn't around and she mechanically fixed her breakfast and ate it. Once she had finished washing the dishes she went in search of her host.

She checked the living room and conservatory but he wasn't there. She hoped against hope he wasn't stubbornly doing something around the house.

It was nearly impossible to keep him still. Ori was beginning to think the word “rest” did not exist in his vocabulary. She chuckled lightly, knocking on the door of his study, but not receiving any answer. She tried with his bedroom next, but with the same result. Frowning, she descended the stairs once again and went down to the basement, but the light was switched off. Closing the basement door she went to the back door and exited in the back garden.

She could have simply looked through the kitchen window and she would have seen him, sitting on a reclining chair in the shade of the willow tree that grew in one of the corners of the garden, reading. Ori's eyebrows rose slightly on their own accord.

There were books in his home – not as many as Ori was accustomed to, but she had long ago learned that she was the exception rather than the rule in that matter - but in the week she had been here she hadn't seen him read anything but the newspaper and she was pleasantly surprised.

Reading could be an excellent way to make him rest. And perhaps it would improve his mood. While she walked towards him, Ori couldn't help but wonder how it hadn't occurred to her before. It was so _logical._

She hated to disrupt his reading, but she wanted to see if he needed anything before going to clean the bathrooms – it was a chore she had planned on doing the day before but she had been too tired. She coughed lightly and Thorin snapped his head from his book.

“Good morning.” he told her, then he added quirking an eyebrow “Although, a couple more hours and I would have just wished you good afternoon.”

She chuckled, feeling a flush creep on her cheeks.

“I overslept a bit.” she told him sheepishly and he shook her head dismissing her concern. “What are you reading?” she asked him genuinely interested.

Surprisingly enough he gave her an apologetic look.

“One of your books.” he told her slightly abashed “You left it on the armchair...”

“The Cycle of Souls?” she asked him surprised

“You're not upset?” he asked her carefully and she shook her head, laughing.

“Why would I be? I'm actually glad you like it.” she told him feeling a sudden giddiness “It's one of the best works of Weber. I've read it twice already.”

“It's interesting.” he told her and they began a lengthy discussion on the book. Ori told him it was one of the fourteen volumes the German scholar had published so far, all focusing on the concept of reincarnation. She explained to him the postulates he had made about the anthropological value of the immortality of the soul and how he compared the Eastern religions with the Western ones.

“I think they are brilliant, the research behind them is thorough.” she said “But what I like about them is how close they get to what you and I have experienced.” she said and Thorin nodded in agreement.

“It's something you could have written.” he told her and she shook her head.

“You flatter me” she said shyly “Like I could even dream of having _that_ level of knowledge about religions.”

“Maybe not about religions.” he said “But I'm sure your insights on reincarnation could be even better than the author's. After all you _have_ experienced it first hand.”

“Like you did.” she retorted “It takes more than experience to make a scholar.”

“You are one” he said and she opened her mouth to protest but he raised a hand to halt her “Or at least you will soon enough be. I'm just saying you could write about it.”

Ori snapped her mouth shot. She did write about it. She actually thoroughly researched it. But she never really told Thorin as much, only implied it and that had been at very beginning of their friendship, before she had realised it was better not to speak of these things to Thorin, lest he got caught in one of his maudlin moods.

“Um... I actually have written several essays.” she told him, biting her lip and he looked at her surprised. “I've been researching our past and the reason why we are back, for the past decade more or less.”

He looked at her wide-eyed for a moment and she squirmed under his gaze.

“You have?” he asked her “I didn't know. I thought you were interested in the past, but I never imagined you were _researching_ it...”

There was amazement in his voice and Ori felt embarrassed.

“It's not properly scientific.” she told him defensively “I have only my memories to go by...”

“Is that why you had asked me to compare our memories?” he inquired and Ori just nodded “I'm sorry, Ori, if I had known” he told her contrite

“Never mind. I know you can't or don't want to remember the events surrounding your death or any of the really important historical moments you had witnessed. It's understandable, really. So, I'll just manage.” she told him, interrupting him, but he levelled her an earnest look.

“If you don't write the history of our kin, who will?” he asked her, voicing a thought she often had.

“If you need my memories I will give them to the best of my abilities.” he told her and the tone he used left no room for objections.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “The Last Pale Light In The West” by Ben Nichols.


	8. Then I saw your face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Sunday afternoon.

 

Her window was open and a faint breeze brought the warm summer air inside the guest-room Ori had begun mentally referring to as “her room”. It was a pleasant afternoon, the first after a row of extremely hot days, but instead of going out in the back garden, she was sitting cross-legged on her bed with her laptop perched atop her thighs. Ori was rereading for the umpteenth time one of her essays and her eyes were getting sore. She had been nitpicking this particular text for the whole afternoon and she still wasn't happy about it.

It wasn't fit for reading. Not yet. She curved her lips in displeasure.

When she had told Thorin about her research, several days before, he had asked her if she would let him read what she had written about it. Now, Ori had never given her texts to anyone, but since Thorin had offered his help and it was only logical to let him see at which point was her research, she had accepted.

It was logical, yes, but only if she managed to make her essays presentable.

She sighed.

She knew that to a degree it was silly to feel so self-conscious about them, but she couldn't help it, she was no Klaus Weber and her writing style left a lot to be desired. And besides, what if they were incorrect, or unclear? What if her writing was poorer than she thought? She bit her lip harder. It was difficult to be objective of her own work and those doubts gnawed at her, especially since it was Thorin who would be reading her essays.

She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear – it was getting longish and would need taking care of soon – and hesitated over the touchpad of her laptop.

It still seemed unreal that Thorin had offered to help her with her work. Since their conversation back in December, Ori had resigned herself to make do with what little she was given. To think that he would actively help her out of his own volition was something she hadn't even dreamed about.

She stretched her arms, feeling the knots in her shoulders from the hours spent sitting in the same position. Days, in truth. It had been Thursday when she had begun her meticulous check of every text she was going to give Thorin, and Ori had been at it almost ceaselessly, pausing only for the meals. She had hoped it would be faster, but her perfectionism got the better of her and the weekend trickled by with her glued to the keyboard of her laptop. She was almost done, though. There were only a few more essays to go.

Ori glanced back on the document displayed on the screen and she immediately noticed a mistake the spell checker hadn't picked. She corrected it with a grimace, unable to shake the feeling that the more she looked the more mistakes she found. It was tedious.

The faint ringing sound of her mobile phone interrupted her musings and she frowned, lifting her laptop from her lap. Clicking on the “save” icon she got up from the bed and exited the room.

Her phone kept ringing while she ran down the stairs, striding to the coat-rack near the front-door where her bag was hung. She rummaged through her belongings looking for the source of the ringing. Judging by the insistence of the caller Ori was sure it could only be her mother.

Finally she fished it out and the name on the display proved her assumption correct.

“Hello mum.” she said after pressing the answer button.

“ _Anne, pet! Finally!”_ her mother's voice exclaimed through the phone and Ori's eyebrows knitted in an instinctive frown – her mother's excitement was seldom a good omen. 

She braced herself for another one of Janet's _interesting_ ideas, like going three months to India alone or spending a year in the Amazon rainforest with the indigenous tribes – which to Ori's immense relief she never got to do – and asked warily

“What is it, mum?”

“ _What do you mean 'what is it'?”_ Janet nearly cried out through the phone in a tone that suggested Ori was being daft but she thought nothing of it. It was a normal occurrence, it was plain impossible to follow her mother's contorted mental paths, so she simply waited for the inevitable explanation.

“ _Do you know what day it is?”_ her mother asked.

“Sunday.” Ori replied automatically, wondering where this conversation was headed. A cold feeling of dread settled in her gut. Her mother hadn't decided to _come_ to London, right? There had been a brief mention of it when they had heard each other some days before and Ori had been sure she had convinced her mother to stay in Bristol, but with Janet one could never be sure. She sometimes _forgot_ to inform Ori of her plans.

“ _Yes, but not just_ any _Sunday! It's the 31 st.” _she exclaimed and Ori stopped in her mental tracks. Oh dear. All thoughts about her mother's antics were forgotten as she widened her eyes.

How could it have slipped her mind?

Admittedly she had lost the count of the past days, gone in a blur of nitpicking and self-doubt about her essays' worth. Not to mention the gargantuan task of trying to keep Thorin from doing things around the house instead of resting - to Ori's dismay reading did the trick only to a degree and most of the time he was obstinate in trying to do things on his own, regardless of his leg which Ori could tell still hurt him, despite the poker face he wore.

“ _Pet? You've gone awfully silent there.”_ her mother's voice pulled her back to the present.

“It... It slipped my mind.” she admitted in a small voice, grimacing. It never had before. Ever.

“ _Well, Annie_ you _must be having a_ _lot of fun in London.”_ Janet told her in a teasing tone _“I mean, if you're forgetting about your birthday...”_

“Mum!”Ori cried out feeling a blush creep on her cheeks at her mother's preposterous implications.

“I've just had a lot on my mind.” she said quietly.

“ _Of course, pet.”_ Janet said, then added _“And I'm sure it had nothing to do with your injured handsome 'friend'?”_

Ori shook her head in exasperation, feeling her blush deepen despite the sheer inanity of her mother's notions. The way she insisted on inflecting the word “friend” made her meaning clear. And it was silly. Utterly so. Like her insistent comments about him being handsome. Not that they were incorrect, but there was no need to point it out all the time. Especially given Janet had never actually seen him, so she was merely saying it for the sake of annoying her.

She huffed and then sighed. Her mother wasn't doing it out of spite. It was just her nature and Ori couldn't blame her for it. And besides there was a grain of truth in her words, her forgetfulness _had_ to do with Thorin, just not in the way her mother inferred.

“ _You still there, Annie?”_ Janet asked her snapping her from her thoughts.

“Yes, mum.”

“ _Happy birthday, pet.”_ her mother wished her, and she smiled.

“Thanks.”

“ _So how is your apartment hunt going?”_ Janet asked her.

“Well” she began, leaning on the front door while she spoke, looking at the white ceiling above.

“I've seen two places so far” she told her and went on a tirade about the apartments she had seen - too few, if she were honest with herself, but she had had very little time what with everything – and described them to her mother who every now and them hummed in reply.

“ _Well, Annie, I'm sure you'll find some place to stay.”_ Janet told her reassuringly, when Ori had finished speaking, then added _“In the meanwhile enjoy yourself.”_

Ori was positive there was a wink thrown in there and she breathed a long sigh, shaking her head.

“I will.” she replied with all the patience she could muster. Someone had to be the adult between the two of them and Janet, despite being nearly fifty years old, most certainly wasn't. The tinge of dread she so often inspired in Ori with her recklessness was a testament to it. Sometimes she felt like she was the parent. She smiled, with a roll of her eyes. Her mother was unique.

“I'm glad you called.” she told her softly.

“ _Pet, I'm always happy to hear you.”_ Janet cooed.

“For a moment you've had me scared you were planning another one of your trips.” Ori admitted and heard her mother laugh on the other side of the line.

“ _Oh, don't you worry about that, I most certainly will go on a little holiday before the year is over.”_ she told her happily and Ori blinked

“ _I was thinking about Australia, maybe. I should like to spend Christmas in a bathing suit and besides there are the Aborigines...”_ she told her airily.

Ori sighed in relief, looking down at her flip-flops. She listened to her mother's exhaustive plans for the winter with her usual fretting interest, thinking how her mother made her turn into Dori sometimes. But at least she wasn't going anywhere dangerous, this time around. Well, no more dangerous than a continent infamous for being the natural habitat of some of the deadliest animals on Earth.

When they finally bid each other goodbye and Ori hung up, she noticed there were several unread texts on her phone. Still leaning on the front door, she opened them. And smiled.

There were messages from old school-mates and from a couple of people she had hung out with in Cardiff, all of them wishing her a happy birthday. She hastily typed her thanks to all of them while she walked in the direction of the kitchen. She could use a cup of tea before she continued on her task. Besides it was her birthday. She could treat herself with a little idleness, right?

She still couldn't fathom having forgotten about it. It was _uncanny._ At least for her. She prided herself on being efficiently organised and then she overlooked looking at the calendar for _days._

  
  


Thorin heard Ori walk into the kitchen and put down the newspaper, taking his crutches and getting up from the sofa. He crossed the living room and stopped under the arch where the dividing wall had used to be, looking at her with a small frown of concern.

He had seen so very little of her in the past two days. Save from the meals they had eaten together she had spent most of the time in her room and she seemed a bit paler than usual. There was the faint shade of circles under her large brown eyes that gave her a tired look.

He couldn't help feeling worried at her unusual behaviour in the past days and after hearing her speak on the phone - from the snippets of conversation that had carried over to the living room he had gathered she had been talking to her mother - he wondered if everything was all right.

She didn't see him, concentrated on filling the electric kettle with water and shaking her head all the while.

“Is anything amiss?” he asked her, leaning on his crutches and she turned her head in his direction. She lifted her eyebrows before frowning.

“You should be resting.” she scolded him gently. He shook his head and she gave him a look of mild exasperation. Then she addressed his question.

“Nothing is amiss.” she told him, kettle in hand, then with a lopsided grimace “I had just forgotten about my birthday.”

He frowned.

“Your birthday? When is it?” he inquired, genuinely interested.

To his befuddlement she gave him a sheepish smile before turning the kettle on. She looked at him from underneath her red-blond eyebrows before saying

“Today.”

He blinked.

That was unexpected.

“Today?” he parroted, then added “I suppose a 'happy birthday' is in order.”

She tittered shyly.

“Thank you”

“Do you usually celebrate it?” he asked her, beginning to feel the strain in his immobilised leg, but unwilling to take a seat just yet. His muscles were starting to ache from the disuse. He was going to have to work hard to get back in his usual shape.

“Well, not really.” she said “I didn't plan on doing anything. I just can't believe I've forgotten...” she trailed

He hadn't celebrated his birthday since he had joined the Army and if it weren't for Harriet's customary phone-calls he was fairly certain he would altogether forget about it. But judging by the look of confusion on Ori's face she apparently put more value into the event.

“Well, if you want I think there's a bottle of wine somewhere.” he offered with some hesitation. She looked up and gave him lopsided smile

“I might take you on this offer _after_ dinner.” she told him with humour in her eyes, then glancing at the nearly boiling kettle “I don't think drinking at this hour qualifies as decent.”

“ _I_ was aiming for a toast.” he told her with a smirk, amused at the blush that rose in her cheeks and he couldn't help the huff of laughter that escaped his lips. “But I suppose we could down the whole thing, if you think you can handle it.” he said, arching an eyebrow.

“I do hold my liquor better than I used to.” she defended, then added “Mostly. But I think a toast would suffice, really. I have work to do and an apartment to see tomorrow and I'd rather do so without a headache.”

“As you wish.” he told her with a grin, then putting forth his crutches he said “I'll fetch it.”

“No.” she stopped him with a raised palm “ _You_ should be sitting.” she told him crossing her arms over her chest. He grimaced, feeling his shoulders sag.

“Where is it?” she asked him.

“Try the second cupboard to the left.” he told her, pointing with his hand and added “I'll be in the living room then. _Resting._ ”

She chuckled at his petulant tone and he turned away, hobbling towards the sofa. He heard her open the cupboard and rummage, looking for one of the bottles of red wine Harriet customarily gave him for Christmas.

He sat down, feeling the tension in his leg lessen. A moment later he saw Ori walk towards him with a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses.

“This one?” she asked, lifting the bottle of Chianti his sister had bought on her holiday in Italy and he nodded.

Several hours later, they had opened the second bottle of Harriet's wine and Ori was giggling as she told him another anecdote about her mother. The two of them had gotten into a lengthy chat about their respective families – the current ones – and their quirks, which evolved into an epic retelling of their deeds.

He looked at her. Save from the light flush on her freckled cheeks and the blissful glint in her eyes he couldn't tell she had been on her third glass of wine. She hadn't lied when she told him she had grown more resilient.

Thorin himself was fine, half a bottle of wine wasn't enough to make him feel anything but a little tipsy, even if they hadn't eaten anything since lunch. There was only a lightness in his limbs and the greater ease with which he managed to ignore the light pain in his leg.

They _had_ intended to drink just a glass, but the Chianti had been excellent and it would have been a waste of good wine to leave it lying around.

“Janet is the polar opposite of Dori.” Ori said with laughter in her eyes then she added with a large grin “Should the two of them ever meet I think the universe would collapse upon itself.”

He shook his head, chuckling.

He hadn't met the woman in question, but if Ori's accounts were correct her statement was more than true. Ori had begun another tale about her mother and one of her birthdays, and he listened to her, looking at the way her hands moved making shadows dance on her strawberry blonde hair. He noticed there were faint lines of crowfeet at the corners of her big dark eyes.

She finished her tale and took a sip of wine. She was about to put it back on the coffee table when she gasped

“Oh, do you know I've been reborn on the same day I had been born the first time around?” she exclaimed suddenly.

“I wonder if it's a coincidence...” she trailed

He looked at her with a light frown.

“How can you be sure it's the same day?” he asked her, sound logic cutting through the slight haze of his mind.

Ori just shook her head, laughing.

“I made the calculations, of course.” she told him matter-of-factly “And reconstructed the calendar.”

“You reconstructed the calendar?” he repeated, blinking. It sounded like an impressive feat and yet she made it seem the simplest thing in the world. He realised he had said it aloud when Ori replied

“Because it _is_ simple, really.” she told him with a large smile. “I'll show you”

She got up from the armchair and wobbled a bit before straightening her posture. She went to the kitchen and fetched the calendar that hung on the wall, picking up a pencil from the counter.

“Look.” she said, sitting on the sofa next to him, bumping his arm with her shoulder “Sorry”

Settling herself next to him she circled two dates on the calendar placed on her knees

“These are the dates of the solstices – Midsummer and Midwinter - right?”

He nodded, looking at the freckles on the back of her hands as she drew lines on the grey sheet of paper the calendar was printed on. She pushed behind her ear a stray lock of hair that was falling in her eyes and he followed the movement with his eyes.

There were freckles on her neck too, albeit very light.

“There, done.” she told him, drawing his attention back on the calendar.

“These were the months by our old reckoning.” she said, showing him the twelve sections she had outlined on the calendar with her pencil. He looked at them for a moment and nodded. It was simple mathematics in truth and had he been able to think perfectly straight he knew he would have realised it right away. Apparently he was tipsier than he originally thought.

He blamed it on the second bottle of wine, it _was_ stronger than the Chianti, after all.

“It's just a matter of counting the days in the month.” she told him, drawing his attention.

His eyes travelled to the month of November, looking at it where it stood, broken nearly in half by a line that marked the end of the first month in the dwarven year. His eyes zeroed in on to the date of his birthday – John's birthday – which stood lodged in the first half of the section. And he blinked twice.

It couldn't be.

He took the calendar in his hands and he counted the days from Durin's Day to the day of his birthday. It was impossible.

He sobered up immediately and turned his eyes sharply in Ori's direction.

“It's no coincidence, Ori.” he told her seriously. She frowned for a split second, before her eyes widened in realisation.

“Oh.” she said “That's... that's important. Really”

Her eyes lit up and he could see the wheels moving behind them, processing the information and observing it from every possible angle. She was there, but her mind was travelling at supersonic speed, miles away from the waning light of his living room.

“I thought, I mean, it _could_ have been a coincidence.” she said, eyes locked onto something deep in the meanders of her thoughts.

“But that the two of us have been reborn on the exact date of our first birth... Wow.” she breathed.

“It makes sense.” he said, captivated by her reaction, but at the same time feeling the need to draw back her attention to the present. _To him,_ he thought selfishly, before smothering the small spiteful voice inside his head.

She hummed in agreement.

“I'll have to embed this information in my theory, though.” she said “This changes some things...”

Her voice trailed off shyly and he saw her hands nervously toy with the pencil.

“What is it, Ori?” he inquired without his usual terseness.

“You wouldn't mind if I go and write this down?” she asked him in a small voice, worrying her lip.

Thorin's eyes were locked on the faint red mark her teeth had left on her bottom lip when they had released it and he blinked, swallowing. She gave him a puzzled look and he realised he hadn't spoken yet. He forced his gaze away from the edge of red on her lip and managed a nod.

His words were stuck somewhere.

She gave him an odd look but beamed nonetheless, hurrying to her feet.

“I'll come fix us dinner later, okay?” it was more a statement than a question.

“Good.” he croaked, watching her turn her back and walk out of living room. He stared at her small retreating form and frowned at his own behaviour.

What had just happened?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently writing about nitpicking makes me want to do it myself. :D  
> I have gotten back and updated Chapter 2 because I was unhappy about the way I had written some parts. I haven't changed anything major, though, so there's no need to go back and reread it if you don't want to. :)
> 
> Chapter title taken from “Lucky Ones” by Lana Del Rey.


	9. Damn these walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heavy memories and heavy choices?

It was late morning and Thorin was standing in the kitchen, fixing himself a sandwich. He was leaning on his crutches, trying to ignore the light but constant throbbing in his right leg. Even though it had gotten better and he no longer had to fight against the urge to give in and take his painkillers – he valued his lucidity above all – his leg still bothered him whenever he moved too much.

He had just finished taking out the necessary ingredients when he heard the sound of footsteps. He turned his head to look at Ori who was tiredly dragging her feet through the living room, oblivious to his presence.

Thorin had barely seen her in the past two days. Since their impromptu celebration of her birthday - which had left Thorin with an uneasy sense of puzzlement - Ori had practically barricaded herself in her room to work on her theory, postponing her visit to Kingston where she had planned to go and see an apartment, and Thorin had missed her presence. His home, where he had lived alone for the past six years, had seemed oppressively silent in the past days without the sound of her often timid voice.

He took a good look at her and felt his lip curl. She looked utterly exhausted – had she even _slept?_ He shook his head with a displeased glare. That wouldn't do. It took her a moment to notice him but when she finally did she levelled him a look that would have put her older brother to shame.

“Let me do that.” she all but ordered him, putting down a plastic case on the table and shooing him away “You should sit down”

He gave her a look.

“And you should rest.” he retorted bluntly, not moving an inch “You look like you haven't slept in days”

She bowed her head with a slightly sheepish grimace.

“I'm fine.” she replied with less firmness than before, then added with patience “But you really shouldn't be standing. _Please_.”

There was a wide-eyed pleading look in her eyes and he yielded, taking out a chair and seating himself. Ori washed her hands and began slicing and buttering the bread. He watched her work with a small scowl. She was as bad as him – and Thorin knew he was an awful patient, his lack of patience being his main issue as Harriet had once told him – but his neglect of his own health didn't mean he would allow _her_ to work herself to an early grave, if he had any say in it.

He was frowning when she put the food in front of him, along with a glass of water. She sat herself down on her already customary chair, propping her chin on her hand.

“Thank you.” he told her, biting into his sandwich.

“You're welcome.” she replied softly, fidgeting with the plastic case she had put on the table before. He arched an inquiring eyebrow, wondering what had gotten her nervous now.

“You said you wished to read my essays. So I've given them a once-over and well, they're in here” she said shyly, looking at the CD in front of her.

“Is that what you have been doing these past days?” he asked her after swallowing the bite of sandwich he had been chewing and she flashed him a guilty look, a light flush appearing on her freckled cheeks.

She nodded.

“You didn't have to.” he told her seriously, lips set in a thin line.

“But you said you wanted to read them.” she retorted in a small voice, frowning.

“Of course I do.” he replied earnestly, looking at her straight in the eye.

“Well, I _had_ to make them presentable.” she exclaimed with a firm nod of her head. Then, with a shrug of her narrow shoulders she said “I would have had to do it sooner or later anyway.”

His gaze trailed to the translucent green plastic case she held in her hand. He was genuinely curious about her work, even if it miffed him that it was to be blamed for her exhaustion – or was it he who should be blamed? After all, she had been revising her writings for _his_ sake - and yet, Thorin would be lying to himself if he didn't admit he was looking forward to reading what she had written about their kin, to see the history of their people put in her words.

Their people.

Her dedication to her task held an importance he was only starting to fully comprehend. And it was unsettling to think it was only the two of them who remained to remember it all. The past of their kin, their greatness and downfalls, the knowledge they had all taken for granted, all but one step from oblivion.

He stared at his half-eaten sandwich on his plate, feeling his appetite wane.

In all these months since he had come to terms with his rebirth he had never stopped to consider that all the memories he had so craved to destroy should be treasured instead. While he had no doubt she had extensive knowledge about the history of their kin, Ori hadn't _witnessed_ history, not as much as he had anyway - even if he so desperately wished he hadn't, wished to be able to sleep without having to _see._

He breathed through his nose.

No matter how unbearable it was for him to even brush those memories with his consciousness, he had a duty to his people. And it went beyond his wishes - or the tethering balance of his mind.

He had been given another opportunity at life and he couldn't let his memories die with him once again. He owed it to them.

Thorin stared at the plate in front of him, trying to ignore the whispering thought of that viciously honest part of himself that told him his motives were not so noble after all. That told him he would do it to punish himself. And that voice held a searing truth. There was so much – _too_ much – he had to redeem himself from.

He felt the vice around his lungs tighten. So much to atone for. So many wrongs.

Flashes of the darkest moments rallied in his minds eye – bright yellow glimmering gold... _gold beyond measure –_ and his breaths were trapped inside his chest. The world began to spun.

No.

With all his willpower he forced his lungs to function, struggling to push those images away, to bury them deep down under the heavy boulders of his self-imposed discipline, the iron grip of his control. He had to.

He couldn't give in. Not when Ori was sitting an arm-length away from him.

He lifted his eyes and took in her slightly concerned look. He blinked. Breathe in and then breathe out. He had to. His heartbeats hammered in his chest. She was looking at him with a small frown and he schooled his expression, hoping she couldn't read the panic in his eyes.

“Thorin.” she said “Are you... is everything alright?” she asked him in a small voice and he simply nodded.

Lowering his eyes he picked up his forgotten sandwich and took a bite.

Just breathe.

He chewed it mechanically, feeling her gaze on him. It was hard to swallow when his stomach wouldn't collaborate but he did it nonetheless.

“Are you sure?” she inquired sceptically a moment later, her strawberry blond eyebrow furrowing deeper. There was concern in her eyes.

“Yes.” he replied, glad his voice was even in spite of the thunderstorm inside his chest. He finished eating through sheer willpower and when Ori got up from her seat to wash his plate in the sink, he squeezed his eyes shut and ran a hand through his hair, willing the food to remain in his stomach.

He was going to have to deal with this. He was. One way or another.

Thorin had a duty to his people and he couldn't fail them _again_. He ignored the little voice that sneered accusingly and called him selfish.

Ori washed the simple porcelain plate with a deep frown.

She didn't understand what had just happened. One moment she was arguing with Thorin about her research and giving him the disc that contained her painstakingly edited writings, and the next one he was losing himself in thought with a strange – _pained_ – expression on his face that soon morphed into something eerily reminiscent of the look he had worn that first evening in Cardiff, right before he had nearly ran out of her apartment.

She put the plate on the rack to dry and hesitated a moment, looking at the sunlit garden behind the kitchen window. Whatever it was that tormented him it had also made him uncomfortable. He had obviously tried to rein himself, pretend everything was in order. But it wasn't and Ori had seen the raw look in his sky-blue eyes and that had made something clench painfully inside her stomach.

She worried her lip and turned in his direction. He was still seated at the kitchen table, his broad shoulders squared defiantly, while his hands clutched the edge of the table with a white-knuckled grip. Ori suddenly felt an irrational urge to simply wrap her arms around his shoulders and comfort him. To hold him until the storm in his blue eyes calmed. And he smiled.

She stopped herself, her arm already reaching out. A flush rose violently in her cheeks and she looked down on the tiled floor of the kitchen. Ori doubted he would appreciate being hugged. In fact she couldn't think of anything less likely.

She shook her head at her sheer inanity.

Hoping he wouldn't notice the burning of her cheeks, Ori took the empty glass from the table and put it in the sink a bit too loudly.

“I'll go and take a look a this, then.” Thorin's even voice startled her. She threw a questioning glance in his direction and saw him look at her apple green case. It took her a moment to understand and she shook her head at her own flustered behaviour. What was wrong with her?

“Al... alright.” she half-stuttered. “I'll just leave you to it then.”

She dried her hands and nearly ran out of the kitchen. _What was wrong with her?_ She thought with exasperation, walking up the stairs and into her room. Ori shook her head and sat herself on her bed, trying not to think about the scene she had just witnessed and even less about her strange reaction to it.

  


Two days later Thorin sat on the sofa, drinking a mug of Earl Grey and slowly turning the printed pages of one of Ori's essays. He was completely captivated by it. The paper was about the rule of Durin the Third and while Thorin had already known most of the cited events he was fascinated by the way history came to life in her writing.

Thorin had never set foot in the Halls of Durin. He had only ever been able to vaguely imagine them from the tales that had made it through generations and from the accounts he had found in the dusty scrolls he had been forced to study during his first youth. But Ori's writing was something else entirely. It made the ancients halls seem familiar. Hadn't he known better he would have thought Ori had been there from the way she described them.

But that was impossible. The Halls of Khazad-Dûm had been lost long before Thorin's birth. By the time they had been around, goblins, orcs and fouler – darker – things had been dwelling in the Halls of Durin. Ori couldn't have seen them. _He_ had seen only its eastern gates and that had been... He stopped himself, breathing deeply. He couldn't let his thoughts veer to the forbidden ground of that battle.

She thankfully wasn't back yet – she had gone to see that Kingston apartment she had been meaning to look at days prior – or she would have given him another concerned look. She worried enough as it was and it didn't sit well with him. But it was only natural, especially now that it was a matter of days before he had to go see his doctor about his leg. If it was healed enough they would remove the cast. And while Thorin in all honesty couldn't wait for the infernal thing to be off so he could finally get back to work, at the same time there was a part of him that dreaded it. Ori would have no reason to stay and she would leave as soon as she found a place. Very soon if this apartment in Kingston was to her liking.

His good mood had vanished in a scowl when the sound of the front door opening pulled him back from his thoughts.

“I'm back.” Ori called hanging her bag on the coat rack and taking off her shoes, balancing the grocery bag in her arms.

“How did it go?” Thorin's voice asked from the living room and Ori trudged straight to the kitchen to deposit the groceries on the kitchen counter.

“The apartment wasn't so bad.” she told him, immensely pleased to see he was for once sitting on the sofa with his leg properly perched on a cushion placed on the coffee table. Even if he was wearing a strange expression.

“It was overpriced, though.” she added, mechanically putting away the items she had purchased.

Cupboards opened and closed.

“Maybe I'm too picky” she said, leaning on the kitchen counter once she was done with the groceries “I know my attic studio in Cardiff was a gem, especially given the price, and I can't expect...” she ended with a sigh, hands waving in exasperation.

“It's already September and you'll be taking off that thing in a couple of days” she told him, gesturing towards his immobilised leg “I can't impose on your hospitality for much longer.”

“You're not imposing, Ori.” he told her in his usual baritone “You're welcome to stay for as long as you wish.”

“Thorin...” she protested, but his expression was suddenly earnest.

“In fact” he said “If you want to, you can stay here.”

He took his crutches and got up from the sofa. She gave him a look but he ignored her, slowly making his way across the expanse of the living room with a determined expression.

“Thorin” she said with a shake of her head “I need a place where I'll stay for the next two years.”

“I know that.” he told her simply, coming to stand nearby “And the offer still stands.”

Ori craned her neck and looked at him, towering above her at his six feet something of height. His stance was serious and the look in her eyes was firm. She bit her lip. His offer was a generous one, truly, and she would be lying to herself if she didn't admit she was sorely tempted to accept it.

She looked away and sighed. It wouldn't be right to burden him with her presence only because he felt indebted to her. It just wouldn't.

Thorin could see her hesitate. Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her white shirt and he suddenly felt nervous. He wanted her to stay. He _really_ did.

The moment he had uttered his unexpected offer - he had surprised himself with it, having only ever fleetingly contemplated the option - he had realised he didn't want her to go, to move to some apartment in a remote corner of London. He had gotten used to seeing her every day, to having her sit on the kitchen chair she had claimed as her own or to finding her toothbrush on the washbasin in the bathroom. It had been only three weeks but it seemed to Thorin like Ori had been there forever. And he wasn't ready to return to the desolation of his empty home.

“I like having your around, Ori.” he admitted and watched her tilt her head, looking at him with those big eyes of hers.

“And I don't need the guest-room.” he continued, swallowing “Before the accident it hadn't been used in years.”

He watched her push an unruly lock of hair behind her ear and he recalled her doing the same gesture four days before when they had been sitting on the sofa, discussing dwarven calendars. There had been freckles on her neck. He blinked twice.

She sighed, straightening herself and his eyes followed her movements as she began pacing around the kitchen. The light smacking sound of her flip-flops on the floor tiles accompanied her steps and she walked back and forth, mouth pursed in thought. After the longest deliberation she stopped by the cooker and Thorin inhaled, waiting for her decision.

“I'm not saying I accept,” she began, levelling him a firm look “but should I do so I _would_ pay you rent.” she told him with determination.

“No...” he began, but she interrupted him with a serious voice

“I cannot be your guest for _two years_.” then averting her eyes “I would feel like I'm taking advantage of your generosity.”

He could see her point but there was no way he was going to make her pay rent, not after all Ori had done for him, in both her lives. And while he couldn't atone for his wrongs, he could at least offer her this much – and if his motivation sounded somehow hollow to him, Thorin choose to ignore it - but he could see she wouldn't be swayed in her decision.

A compromise was in order

“You can pay a share of the bills, if you insist.” he offered her and she looked up.

“Half of the bills _and_ groceries. And I'd do chores.” she retorted.

“I'm not hiring you as a maid.” he exclaimed and his blue eyes flashed with a shade of irritated exasperation “It's bad enough you've had to do everything around the house these past weeks.”

“You're offering me a place to stay. It's the least I can do.” she told him. It would be almost an even exchange, considering she would be invading his private space all the time, Ori reasoned.

“You've followed me across Middle Earth until the _very_ end.” he replied, marking the last part and Ori grimaced, knowing what he meant. “Giving you a home is the least _I_ can do.”

There was finality in his voice and the silence that followed was thick. Ori's feet shuffled while she struggled with her conflicting thoughts. On one side was her ingrained sense of politeness that told her to refuse. But why should she?

Thorin wanted her to stay.

 _She_ wanted to stay.

Ori had been truly content the past weeks. She liked Thorin's home, his quiet neighbourhood and Harrow in general. But most of all she liked his company, the rhythm in their respective routines they had so easily found. And she had been loath to lose it, but at the same time she had known it was a temporary experience.

But it didn't have to be.

She bit her lip, looking at her feet.

“I do like living here.” she admitted timidly. He didn't speak and she lifted her eyes, meeting his gaze. There was something akin to cautious hope in it.

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders

“I accept.” she told him.

“You do?” he asked with a tinge disbelief and Ori gave him a small smile.

“Yes” she said and his face split into a grin.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Wings” by Birdy.


	10. It's just a change in me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moving (forward?)

 

It was the end of the second week of September when Ori boarded the train for Bristol. She seated herself near a window on a backward facing seat and waited for the train to leave the station. The loud blast from the air horn signalled the departure and Ori listened to the faint rumble of the engines while she watched the landscape speed by. Soon London began to vanish in the distance and she observed the silhouettes of the buildings grow dimmer against the dark grey sky ready to burst in a downpour. Ori leaned her head back enjoying the view. It was a habit she developed on her first year of uni in Cardiff  - to take the backward seats. She had liked giving a last look at the place she was leaving, whether it was Bristol or Cardiff. It was a comforting feeling, to watch the city grow smaller and smaller until nothing but countryside could be seen. It made the parting less abrupt, even when she fully intended to return.

And she did. In the matter of days, in fact.

As soon as she was done with the necessary arrangements for her relocation, Ori would head back to London. Thorin had had his cast taken off three days before and since her assistance was no longer needed, she had decided to head back to Bristol to take care of everything.

While most of her belongings were still in the cardboard boxes she had put them when she had left Cardiff, she had to make a selection of what she would be taking with her - there were many things she wouldn't be needing in Thorin's house, like her kettle or her toaster, and she would have to leave some of her books in Bristol as well. There was simply no room in the guest-room – _her_ room now - for the sheer amount of books she owned, and there was no way she was going to invade the rest of the house with her personal library.

It was still strange to think she would be living in Thorin's home – she couldn't think of it as moving in with him, that was just... well not _wrong_ per se, but still not the way she wanted to think about it. He was doing her a huge favour and Ori still felt a bit guilty about imposing her presence, but he had made it clear he _did_ want her around.

She bit her lip lightly. It didn't help that at the same time she was excited about it all.

But it was hard not to be. Uni would start in a couple of weeks and she was going to live in London. Properly - that she had technically done so for the past month was beside the point. During her stay she hadn't thought of the capital as her new home.

But now she could do so.

Ori looked at the dark clouds in the overcast sky. Her summer had been overall unexpected. It hadn't gone the way she had planned – relaxing in Bristol with a book on her lap - but at the same time she _had_ done most of the things she had meant to. She had read, written, researched and found herself a home, and in the spare time she had even found a moment to knit herself a new cotton scarf, which she was currently wearing.

And above it all she had enjoyed herself.

She was glad for it, even if she wished it hadn't taken Thorin injuring himself to do so. She felt a clutching sensation in her chest when she recalled he _could_ have died – she had reconstructed the events from the bits and pieces she had caught from the various conversations they had had and worry had hit her, belated though it was, nonetheless. Thorin had been lucky and it was a chilling thought.

Ori looked down at her hands rigidly clenched around the fabric of her skirt and she willed the thoughts away. It would do her no good to linger on the what ifs. Thorin was getting better and in the matter of a few months his leg would be as good as new, and that was the only thing that mattered.

Although, she thought wryly, it was a small miracle everything _had_ healed well, considering how stubborn he had been in not resting. Trying to keep him from moving around and doing chores had been worse than the few times she had had to babysit her neighbour's twins in Cardiff. She felt the corners of her lips quiver in silent laughter. That was a thought best not shared, she mused. Somehow she didn't think her King would appreciate being compared to a pair of toddlers. She silently chuckled while her eyes followed the oblique trail of raindrops on the window.

  
  


Thorin was standing in front of his desk, gripping the back of his chair with a murderous glare. He felt a growl build in his throat at the sight of the sheer amount of paperwork and Roberts who was standing next to him made a small whimpering sound. Thorin shifted his gaze on his smartly-dressed assistant. He looked ready to bolt.

“S... sir” the young assistant stuttered “Do you... do you need anything.”

“Coffee.” he told him curtly “Plenty of it.”

“Y... yes Mr. Smith. I'll bring it to you right away.” Roberts replied all but fleeing from Thorin's office.

With a resigned look at his assistant's back Thorin pulled out the chair and sat down, wincing. His right leg ached – the orthopaedist had told him it was a normal occurrence, since his muscles needed to get used to moving once again – and he tried to rub away the pain but to little effect. Thorin had been told he would need to see a physiotherapist and he had no doubt starting a rehabilitation program was the sensible thing to do, but in all honesty, after seeing the state of his desk, he knew he didn't have time for that. Judging by the piles of documents in front of him, it appeared that whoever had been standing in for him had done a very poor job of it - he almost snorted at how eager he had been to get back to work mere days prior.

It was better if he didn't tell Ori about his decision, he mused.

He moved his ankle gingerly, trying to release the stiffness, while he inserted the password in his computer. He knew his reasoning was cowardly, but knowing Ori, she would give him one of her looks and he would end up going to see the thrice-damned physiotherapist just to banish _that_ look from her brown eyes. She had the uncanny ability to make him feel contrite even when he was just fixing himself a cup of tea instead of resting idly on his sofa.

Ori seemed to be often on his mind and he marvelled at that. She had unexpectedly become an important part of his life. From the moment he had nearly collided with her in a Cathays street Ori had slowly wedged her way into his life, turning it upside down. And now he was sharing his living quarters with her.

Or at least, would be once she returned.

It was a strange thing, he had lived alone since his mother's illness had forced her to move in with Harriet, but never in all those years had the emptiness of his home bothered him. But after a month of Ori's presence it had been unsettling to be alone in his home during the weekend. The silence that had surrounded him had been so thick Thorin had felt like he could slice it.

He wondered whether Ori would be back tonight, even though he knew it was unlikely. She had left on Friday night for Bristol and wasn't due back until the weekend, having gone to pack her belongings and most likely spend some time with her mother. She had often spoken of the older woman who – unsurprisingly, since she was Ori's parent – worked in a book-store. Thorin could tell, from the way her eyes softened that she missed her, so he knew it was rather selfish on his part to want her to return as soon as possible, and yet he did nevertheless.

He could hardly wait to have her back, along with the impossible amount of books he was sure she would bring along with her. He remembered the sheer amount of them from his visits to her old home in Cardiff, and felt his lips curl in amusement. She was most likely going to bring a small library with her.

He wondered where was she going to put it?

A feeble knock sounded on the door, distracting him from his thoughts.

“Come in.” he said and his P.A. walked in with a large mug of black coffee balanced on a tray.

“Thank you, Roberts.” he told him taking the proffered the still steaming beverage and putting it on one of the few empty spots on his desk.

“Y... you're welcome sir.” his assistant replied “Is there anything else?”

“No.” Thorin answered and no sooner had the syllable escaped his lips that the gangly youth was hobbling out of his office in a tangle of anxiety.

Thorin shook his head at the younger man's antics and looked down to the piles of folders. He huffed a mildly irritated breath. He switched on his desk lamp and deliberated for a short moment before grabbing the topmost file folder from the nearest pile and getting on to work. Ori's books would have to wait.

  
  


Janet was leaning on the door-frame of Ori's bedroom, her lightly freckled face split in a large grin that made the wrinkles on the corners of her lips stand out.

“So you're moving in with Mr. Handsome?” her mother asked her, toying with her long braid. She had been away for the weekend for a yoga workshop somewhere out of Bristol so Ori hadn't seen her until that morning.

Ori knew she should have anticipated such a reaction from her when she had told her the news and yet she had hoped, for once, to be able to have a normal conversation with her mother. One which would not include Janet's harebrained notions, for instance. But the topic of Thorin seemed to be particularly inspiring for her mother, to Ori's dismay.

There was a mischievous glint in Janet's grey eyes and Ori blinked at her, noticing she was wearing that absurd green dragon-patterned robe she had purchased during her trip to Beijing. Ori nearly chuckled at her appearance and told her with strained patience

“John, mum.” placing a book on top of the rather tall “keep” pile, and ignoring the newly developed nickname she had for Thorin, before clarifying “And I'm not _moving in with him_. He offered me his guest room.”

Her mother hummed.

“How chivalrous.” she commented in an airily teasing tone. Ori shook her head, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. The movement made the tips of her straight hair brush the curve of her shoulders.

“I'll need to get a haircut.” she observed in a non sequitur, hoping to distract her mother from the current conversation in.

“I like it, pet.” Janet told her, taking the bait.

“It gets in the way.” Ori half-whined fingering a lock - it _had_ really gotten too long - and her mother peeled away from the door-frame, coming to kneel on the floor next to her. Her soft hands toyed with Ori's hair and she closed her eyes on instinct.

Ori had always liked the feel of fingers in her hair. It reminded her of her first life, when Dori had patiently brushed and braided Ori's stubborn hair, nimbly tying small knots on the ribbons that held his meticulous handiwork together. He had done so every single day. Regardless of where had been and what kind of danger had been lurking ahead, Dori had always run his gentle hands through Ori's hair, making sure it was properly done. Always.

Until the day Ori had left the Lonely Mountain never to return.

“There.” Janet said softly, reaching through the sadness of Ori's memory and she opened her eyes, blinking away the wistfulness that had enveloped her. Her mother had taken off the band that held her braid together and her blond curls were beginning to spill. Ori turned around to face the mirror placed on the wardrobe's door and looked at her reflection. Her strawberry blond hair had been pulled into a messy ponytail that barely held, but did the trick.

“You'll might want to trim your fringe, pet” Janet told her while Ori looked at the strange sight in the mirror. It was the oddest thing to see her face not framed by her hair.

“I might keep it like that for a while.” she told her mother, turning her head left and right. But before the older woman's beaming smile took over she added “But I won't let it grow long, mum. It's just not me.”

And it was true. No matter how much she had envied Nori's seemingly _endless_ hair, Ori could never imagine herself with a long cascade of hair. It was just too different from the image she had of herself.

Ori looked at her reflection. Her freckled skin, slightly less pale where sunlight had hit her, her narrow shoulders and small but willowy build. She didn't seem to herself much different– in human equivalent, of course – than she had been in her past life, save for a distinctive lack of beard and the softer curves of her hips and breasts. But those were differences that had never bothered Ori.

Quite the contrary in fact.

While in her past life gender had been to Ori no more than a matter of pronouns - Ori son of Miri had never perceived _himself_ as anything but a person, nor thought too much about it - when Ori had been reborn as a girl, as _Anne_ , her body had felt _righter_ than it had been before and it had been a good feeling, despite the shocking changes it had undergone when she had hit puberty.

But those were changes that had been difficult for any other girls her age, not just her.

She looked at her reflection, toying with the short ponytail at the nape of her neck. She liked the way her cheekbones stood out when her hair was pulled back and she hummed in agreement, before shaking her head at her own vanity.

“Could you pass me that box?” she asked her mother, turning away her gaze from the mirror and getting back to her task. The sooner she was done the sooner she would get back to London. There was no time to waste on silliness.

  
  


It was Thursday evening and Thorin was dragging his feet back home, ignoring the dull but nearly constant ache in his leg. He had chosen to walk home from the tube station rather than taking the bus. It was about time he got his muscles working – he may be somewhat negligent of his health, as Harriet was wont to tell him, but he wasn't so foolish to get back to his usual exercise routine yet. But after a month of doing nothing but sitting and lying down, he was eager to _move_.

It seemed, however that the muscles in his right leg disagreed with him.

He nodded to the elder lady who lived two houses away from his, and was currently throwing away the rubbish. She had been a good acquaintance of his late mother, but after a few ill-fated attempts at conversation with him, Mrs. Flint had given up and resorted to giving him a perfunctory wave every time she saw him.

Thorin crossed the street, walking towards his home and suddenly felt a strange jolt of anticipation run through him when he saw there was an unknown red car parked on his driveway. He hurried his steps, despite the protests from his recently injured leg. He noticed the lights were on in the ground floor, and unless Harriet had decided to acquire an old Ford and pay him a visit, there could be only one other person in his house.

He felt a smile break on his face. Ori was home.

He strode to the front door and unlocked it, dropping his briefcase on the floor under the coat-rack. There were three slightly battered looking cardboard boxes in the hallway.

“Ori?” he called, taking off his light jacket and placing it on the empty hanger.

“In here.” she replied, her voice carrying from the kitchen and he followed it. She was standing in front of the cooker, stirring something that smelled like vegetables in a saucepan. Her hair was pulled back from her face and he stood transfixed for a moment. He could faintly see the dusting of freckles on the her neck in the warm light of the overhanging kitchen lamp and he was reminded of the day Ori had celebrated her birthday. When she had sat herself on the sofa, next to him to show him how the old dwarven calendar could be matched into the current one and her hand had pushed a lock of her red-blond hair behind her ear.

“Thorin?” she said, startling him from his contemplation. He blinked, shaking himself out of his reverie. She was looking at him with her eyebrows raised a bit. He realised he had been standing motionless on the doorway.

“How's your leg?” she asked him.

“Fine.” he answered, omitting the aches he still felt after a week without his cast. He walked into the kitchen, coming to stand by the table.

“What did the physiotherapist say?” Ori inquired, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel with a serene expression that soon turned into a frown “You _did_ go see one, didn't you?”

Thorin mustered all the decades of royal upbringing to keep his face from twisting into a sheepish expression, but Ori sighed nonetheless. She lowered her head, shaking it. He glared. Her silent disappointment was exactly what he had dreaded. It made something twist inside his gut.

“I haven't found time, yet.” he told her, the excuse not wholly untrue. Ori looked at him from behind her shoulder with her lips pursed while she began cutting some bread and Thorin grimaced.

“You're making me turn into Dori.” she observed quietly, intent on her task. Before he had the time to reply she declared “Supper is almost done.”

“I'll set the table.” he offered and upon her nod he walked to the sink. After washing his hands he began taking out the plates and cutlery from the cupboards.

Ori didn't speak and he felt the need to break the growing silence.

“How was your trip to Bristol?” he asked her and she turned her head in his direction.

“Uneventful. Boring even.” she said, turning off the cooker “Mum has been hardly around, so I have no quirky tale of her antics either.”

She walked with the pan in hand towards the table and began putting the food on the plates with a wooden spoon.

“She let me borrow her car for a couple of days, so I came back this afternoon and I've brought my things.” she said.

“I've noticed the boxes.” he said, then added wryly “Mostly books, I assume.”

She gave an unsurprisingly sheepish look, bowing her head and he nearly chuckled.

“I think I'll go to IKEA tomorrow to buy some bookshelves.” she told him in lieu of an explanation,

“That won't be necessary.” he said, taking a seat.

Guessing the amount of books Ori had been likely to bring to London with her, Thorin had moved part of the books placed on the bookshelves in the living room to his study. It was something he had been meaning to do for years, but somehow between one thing and the other he had never quite found the time to do so. It should have been a matter of hours but it had taken him a couple of evenings to move them, since his leg had refused to cooperate - he _should_ see a physiotherapist, he knew.

“I've made some space in the living room for your books.” he told her.

“You needn't have done that.” Ori replied “Thank you, though.”

She smiled shyly and the faintest crowfeet appeared at the corners of her large brown eyes. Thorin found himself, once again unable to do much but look at her. His throat had gone suddenly dry and he blinked in bewilderment.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Lucky Man” by The Verve.


	11. Place your past into a book

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A good day, a bad day and a week after that.

Ori pushed the library doors open and walked out into the damp chill of the Autumn late afternoon. It had just stopped raining and her boots made splashing sounds when she stepped into the occasional puddle on the wet pavement. Pulling her light woollen scarf tighter around her neck she walked in the direction of the nearest Tube station. She fumbled with the front pocket of her messenger bag and extracted her earphones. Putting them on, she turned her player on and soon the dreary London greyness was swallowed by the cheerful tunes of a Beatles song.

She bobbed her head lightly in rhythm while she reflected on the past day. It had been a tiresome but at the same time thoroughly enjoyable day of lessons. Her messenger bag was brimming with reading material she had just picked at the library. Hopefully she would manage to read it all by the end of the week, so she could come prepared for Monday's Old English lesson. It was her favourite course – after all her Bachelor's thesis _had_ been about the recurrent tropes in Anglo-Saxon poetry – even if Ori's interest lay more with the lore that lay hidden in the myths and folklore than the language itself. She sought the scattered bits and pieces of proof that the world she and Thorin had lived in had existed once. Names and myths, mostly - and more often found in the Norse sagas rather than the Anglo-Saxon ones. It was all that was left of their world and Ori sought to preserve it.

She grimaced sadly, while her feet moved on their own accord, accustomed already to the route towards the underground station.

Still, there was reason to be hopeful. After all she did research it. And that brought her back to the reason for her former good mood. Earlier that day, in the hallway near the Latin classroom she had read an ad stating that Prof. Klaus Weber from Ruhr Universität Bochum was doing a lecture the following week. Her greatest source of material, the scholar whose work she had spent the past year studying, was coming to London, _in the flesh._ Ori could hardly believe it or contain her excitement. He would be doing a lecture on the parallelisms between the Eastern and the Western concepts of the afterlife, focusing in particular on the Pre-Christian religious practices in Northern Europe. So not only it was _him_ doing the lecture, but it was about a topic very close to certain parts of Ori's own research. To say that she was looking forward to it would be understating it heavily.

The song she had been listening to ended and the guitar intro of “Here comes the sun” made Ori smile even brighter. To add to her good mood was also the fact that Thorin had become quite taken with Weber's books as well, so she was hopeful he would be interested. Maybe they could go together to the lecture. It would be nice to do something with Thorin that wasn't cooking or cleaning, or gardening – although the latter had been mostly observation from her part while he had done the actual work, Ori was too scared of killing the plants his mother had planted over a decade prior – to do something different from what they had been doing for the past months.

Months. Ori still found it hard to believe it had been months since she had first come to his home. She shook her head in disbelief. It was already the second half of October and yet driving back to Bristol with the cardboard boxes where she had neatly packed her belongings seemed like yesterday. September had sped by so fast Ori had hardly the time to notice and just as she had finished properly settling in Thorin's house October had begun. And with it uni.

She reached the entrance of the station and began her descent, thinking about all the changes her life had undergone since August.

Things were actually going very well. The excitement at beginning her Master's degree had not waned even after a fortnight had passed and Ori had gotten used to her new routine so well sometimes she felt like she had always been living in London. And between her lessons she had even met a pair of fellow history students with whom she had timidly developed the habit of taking lunch with. The very loud duo of girls were most amusing to spend time with, like she had had the chance to confirm once again during their shared meal several hour prior.

In truth, Ori didn't usually do much more than silently sit while Nicole and Lucy bantered about whatever they would be in disagreement that particular day. After three such lunches Ori had concluded the topics could span from the upsides of medieval medicine to whether the Latin professor's assistant was fit – and that was putting it mildly, Ori was sure she would not be able to look at the man in question without blushing, not after having heard him described in such colourful terms by her fellow students. But uncouth as they were, Ori liked Lucy and Nicole. They reminded her of Fíli and Kíli with a pinch of Nori's deviousness and Ori found herself laughing more often than not when in their company.

Today they had been discussing the perks of horseback transportation versus cars and for once Ori had had something to contribute with. Lucy had mockingly glared at her when Ori had explained in a mousy voice how utterly uncomfortable it was to spend a whole day on saddle. Ori had never been fond of equines and after having spent two whole months on the back of a pony, she found herself entitled to criticise the opinion of people like the blonde history student who had obviously never had had saddle-bruises on her thighs.

She rolled her eyes at the thought and boarded the train just as the introductory notes of “Blackbird” began playing in her ears. The companionship with the girls was a nice change. She liked having someone other than Thorin to talk to. Not that she didn't enjoy talking to him. It was quite the opposite. The few hours a day they got to spend together were her favourite part of the day and it was the hardest thing to interrupt their often lively discussions to go and revise her notes before the next lesson, even if studying had always been her favourite activity. But it was nice to expand her acquaintances, even when they couldn't compare to him.

Looking at her own reflection on the train window, Ori smiled. She couldn't wait to get back home and tell him about Weber's lecture.

  
  


Thorin turned the page of the report and glanced at the clock. Ori should be coming home soon. He took a look at how many pages he had left trying to decide whether to leave it and go down to the kitchen to cook supper, or to finish reading it. He did not have the habit of taking his work at home with him. Thorin usually just stayed longer on the office, but after the anything but easy day he had had the idea appealed little to him.

He grimaced. His mind had played tricks on him again. One moment he had been stretching his arms over his head to unclench the kinks in his back while he listened to the rain hitting on the window and the next he had been lost in the memory of a remote downpour soaking him to the bone in the gloom of a mountain-pass, while thunderclaps rent the air, shaking the very stone he had been standing on. Thorin had remembered the fear he had felt while standing on the narrow ledge struggling to hold his balance and watching in horror as his nephew had flown along with half his Company towards the rocky side of the mountain.

It had been the briefest flash of a memory, incomplete in its ending but just thinking about his oldest nephew - Fíli – had been enough to make the walls of his office begin to close on him while other snapshots of memories choked him – white cold ice and even colder eyes, the thump of a body falling limply on the snow, a scream lodged in his throat – and Thorin had curled on himself grasping for breath, struggling, pushing, _fighting_ to get his lungs under control, to rein his mind, to stop before panic took over him and nothing could be done. And it had been difficult to silence the guttural phantom sound of a rasping voice that had sneered at him, to push away from the horror and fear and the sickening sensation that had nearly had him retch.

In the end he had managed to avoid an episode, but it had been a close call.

He ran his fingers through his short hair, letting the thoughts of both the past day and his past life wash away, breathing. Sometimes it took very little to trigger his taut mind.

The sound of the front-door unlocking made him snap his head up and he felt relieved at the distraction. He listened to Ori's footsteps coming from the floor below through the open door of his study. The creaking of the bottom stair told him she was coming upstairs and he idly mused that he should fix that stair. He turned his head just as she had appeared on the doorway.

“Hi.” she told him shyly.

He greeted her in return, putting down the already forgotten report and getting up from the chair. She was wearing a happy smile on her face and he found himself mirroring it with an upward curl of his lips.

“Have you eaten?” he asked her, shutting down his computer and Ori shook her head.

“I'll fix something.” she said.

“No, I'm done with this anyway.” he told her with a glance in the direction of the budget report he would eventually finish reading.

He moved towards the door, but Ori stood there with a strange expression that looked to Thorin like a mixture of excitement and apprehension. She saw him look at her with his eyebrow slightly raised and blushed slightly.

“Um... Klaus Weber is doing a lecture next week.” she told him shyly.

“In London?”

“Yes” she replied, fidgeting her hands slightly “I'll definitely go and I was wondering, well, if you'll be interested?”

The latter was said in such a tiny voice he barely caught it. She looked at him and then began twisting her fingers with more vigour.

“It's not that you have to, I just...” she continued, eyes fixed on the floorboards “Well, you seemed to like his books and since he's coming to London, I don't know...”

“I'd love to.” he told her, interrupting her and she looked up, beaming.

He sometimes didn't understand Ori. And now was exactly one of those times. He couldn't fathom a reason for her nervousness. It was merely a conference, and one he was most eager to hear, at that. He had read several of Klaus Weber's books already and he was genuinely curious about the man's knowledge.

But not about the notions themselves, rather the way he had acquired them. Maybe it was his inherently suspicious nature – or his wishful thinking – but the more he read the German scholar's works and the stronger grew his suspicion of the man's exhaustive knowledge. Could he be like them?

“I... I'm glad.” she told him and with another smile that made him feel a wave of unbidden warmth course through him, she turned and moved away from the doorway, walking towards her room. He switched the light in his study off, walking towards the stairs.

He hadn't and wouldn't voice his ideas to Ori - they could very well be delusions of his already damaged mind - but he was eager to _see_ him. If Weber was anyone Thorin had known, he would surely recognise him, the same way he had recognised Ori. Of course, it could easily be that the man was someone he hadn't met in his past life, but who had nonetheless been reborn.

The possibilities were endless and he found himself mulling through them while he waited for the pasta to be done cooking.

Thorin had more than once pondered in the past year the possibility that he and Ori were no exceptions, that others had been reborn, but he had never dared hope – or was it dread? Could he face any of _them,_ his sister, his nephews, _Bilbo?_

He gripped the wooden spoon so hard it almost snapped.

It was easy to be around Ori, she had few past misdeeds to begrudge him and even those she had apparently forgiven him long before he had even been able to recall them, if her historical records were to be trusted. She had depicted him in such a heroic light he had struggled to reconcile that image with the one he had of himself. He had tried to explain to her it was a portrayal too flawless to be truthful, that it wasn't _him,_ but Ori had fiercely defended him from himself, telling him that, yes, he may had lost sight of their goal for a brief while in those long days under the Mountain, but in the end he had not failed their people, their kin.

Thorin disagreed, but at the same time his memories were so painfully – and mercifully – fragmented he could not argue with her. But something deep within him, a gut feeling of sorts, told him he would not find forgiveness from Dís, nor from any of the others, of those who had been closest to him. Of those he had hurt the most.

It was a battle within him, between the almost masochistic wish to know the span of his sins and the desire to obliterate the memories so the pain would go away once and for all. And while the first could be within his reach if he truly wished for it – and he didn't, no, he didn't, but he _should_ want it and it was difficult to fight against that ingrained sense of duty – the latter was a dream never to come.

He closed his eyes, breathing heavily and feeling suddenly so tired. The loud noise of the boiling water reverberated in his ears and he leaned a palm on the kitchen counter. He knew he should check if the pasta was done, but for the longest stretch of a moment he simply couldn't find the strength to move his muscles and he just listened to the sound of the water mix with the buzzing that came from the fridge and the rhythmic ticking of the clock with an odd detachment from the world.

It could have been forever when he heard the sound of footsteps once again and a jolt of panic climbed up his chest. His eyelids snapped open and he willed his muscles to move. He couldn't let Ori see him in this state.

He couldn't. She was whistling something. A Beatles song. He wouldn't. He took one step towards the cooker, then another and by the time she had ceased her whistling and entered the kitchen he was pouring the boiling water in the sink, like nothing had ever happened. Like his mind had not been on the edge of something – not a panic attack, no, it was different, but it was not something good for sure.

“Thorin?” Ori inquired shyly and he realised he hadn't moved in a while.

“Supper is ready.” he rasped, putting the pasta on the plates.

Ori sported a little frown on her freckled forehead and Thorin tried to act as if nothing had been amiss. By the look in her eyes he could tell she wanted to inquire further and he forced his face into the most neutral expression he could muster. She sat down on the kitchen chair and he followed, taking his fork. They ate in absolute silence, Ori casting a glance in his direction every now and then, but mercifully refraining from any questions, while he tried to rationalise his own reaction.

If just thinking about the possibility of meeting them had that effect on him, Thorin wondered what would happen if this Klaus Weber was one of _them_?

He chewed his food without tasting it. He needed to know and yet he dreaded to know. The possibility was almost insignificantly small, but both his lives had been filled with fateful coincidences. What if this was another one of them?

“I had the most interesting conversation at lunch.” Ori said with slightly strained cheerfulness, breaking the leaden silence that had been suffocating him with his own thoughts.

“Indeed?” he asked, not truly feeling curious, but willing to follow her lead out of the labyrinth of his own mind.

“Yes.” she said with a genuine grin “We were discussing ponies. Well, _I_ was inveighing against them...” she began and Thorin listened to her tale, grateful for her presence of mind. Grateful for her presence in general. Idly he wondered how he had managed all those years without her.

 

A week later they were standing in the neon lit hallway in front of the conference room. There were students and professors milling about and Ori looked at Thorin's thinly-pressed lips, trying to figure out what had him upset. He had been in a that cryptic mood since breakfast and it was unusual.

Ever since their reacquaintance had led them to become friends, she had been able to sway him from his morose moods with relative ease. But apparently, on this particular day, whatever was on his mind was beyond Ori's power of distraction. She bit her lip, worried, and gave him a sideways glance

He stood tall, with his shoulders squared and his blue eyes unreadable. It eerily reminded her of a past Thorin. Of an exiled King stoically posed to face whatever fate was going to throw on his path. She had known that particular aspect of him for far longer than she had known the person underneath and it brought her back to a world where Thorin hardly smiled and nothing but sorrow was ahead of him. Sorrow and death.

It made her uneasy, deeply so to see him poised like that once again. It was wrong. And Ori was sure there must be a reason for it. She almost asked him if he were all right, but she recalled having asked that particular question twice already since she had gotten up from bed and the answer had always been a perfunctory “I'm fine.”

Ori looked at her wristwatch. They should be opening the doors soon to let the audience in.

Whatever it was that had Thorin is such a mood, she hoped against hope Weber's lesson would dispel it.

No sooner had she finished thinking it, that the doors were opened and the assembled people began moving towards the padded seats of the conference room. They entered it and took seats near the middle. On a raised podium there was a desk with a pair of microphones and on the white screen behind it was projected the logo of her university.

They waited in silence for the lecture to begin and Ori let the buzzing of the voices wash over her while she worried her bottom lip. She didn't know _why_ it was important to her that Thorin be happy, all Ori knew was that it _was_. In the past months she had grown to care for him, despite his grumpiness and his sometimes random shifts of mood. He was more than just her King. He was _Thorin_. It pained her greatly to see him suffer, even when she knew there was little she could do.

She looked at him, sitting rigidly by her side and she felt the same overwhelming urge to embrace him until his worries disappeared, that she had already experienced before.

The audience fell silent and Ori swallowed, blushing and realising she hadn't taken out her notebook and pen yet. She bent down, rummaging through the bag she had put on the floor near her feet, trying to push away the heat from her cheeks. She had just fished out the necessary items when she felt a hand grip her forearm with urgency and she looked up.

“Look.” Thorin breathed, his wide blue eyes fixed on the podium and she followed his gaze, gasping.

“Oh.” she managed to exclaim, looking at the figures approaching the podium. One was a professor she had seen in the hallways and the other could be none but Prof. Weber. Only, she recalled him by another name.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Lullaby” by Sia.


	12. Things I want to forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise in advance for any grammar/vocabulary/idiomatic mistakes, but as things stand my German is atrocious. There is very little of it in this chapter, but there's still a possibility I made a mistake or two, so should any of you notice something, please message me so I can correct it! :)

 

The conference passed in a blur.

Throughout the two hours of lecture Thorin had sat motionlessly, barely hearing a word of it as he watched nearly unblinking the round-faced man on the podium. His eyes had followed every gesture, the contained gesticulation, the sober and controlled nodding, the sometimes shrewd smile. All the features he had long learned to associate with Balin. Even if a single glance to the short-bearded man's face with his impressive nose hadn't already given away his identity, those would have surely betrayed him.

Thorin lost track of time in his contemplation. He was trying to make sense of what he was feeling now that he sat less than twenty feet away from his former cousin. His friend.

Despite the sense of foreboding that had plagued him for the past week, Thorin hadn't expected to find Balin there. It was surprising yet less shocking than his encounter with Ori had been and he couldn't help drawing a comparison. Where that had been sudden and all-encompassing, like a landslide, this was like the silent tension of a bowstring. Thought by thought, as his conviction that Weber was someone they knew had grown stronger, the string had been pulled further and further back and now the arrow stood poised to fire.

He could only wonder where it would hit.

How would Balin react? Would he be as understandable as he had always been? Or would he turn his accusing eyes to him, blaming Thorin for all he was to blame? Would he embrace him fondly or would he coldly stare at him?

The various scenarios melted in the crucible of Thorin's mind, burning through his consciousness until nothing but a smoking hole of anxiety remained. He did his best to keep himself under the steely grip of self-control, feeling his muscles reflexively tighten as he struggled to keep his mind in check.

In spite of his spinning thoughts Thorin knew the lecture would end soon. And then he would have to face Balin. For good or for ill, he would. He had not earned the name Oakenshield by quivering before his foes. And if his past was a craven enemy that made his breaths choke inside his throat he willed himself to remember it was a lesser a foe than the Dragon he had faced had been.

Thorin Oakenshield. Strange that he should think of himself in those terms, after having shed the appellative somewhere before his death. And yet, as his eyes locked on the former member of his company delivering his lecture, Thorin thought it was fitting.

As ready for the confrontation as he could be, he waited with his jaw squared for the conference to end.

It was only after the man had stopped talking and Thorin had gotten up from his seat, that he belatedly realised he had been holding Ori's forearm all the while. He quickly released it, feeling an unexpected wave of heat in his cheeks as he bowed his head to give her an apologetic lopsided smile. She looked back at him from under her fringe, a slight tinge of pink under her freckles and Thorin felt the already familiar surge of warmth course through him.

Swallowing, he schooled his expression and began making his way through the throng of people, many of whom waited to give their compliments to the professor or the excellent lecture. He glanced behind his shoulder. Ori was following his lead with a tentative smile on her lips.

They made their way towards the podium where Balin was shaking hands with a bright curve of his lips on his good-natured face. When the three people ahead of them in the queue finally left, the older man leaned over his papers on the desk.

“ _Ein Moment, bitte._ ” Balin said without looking up, lifting his hand apologetically.

Thorin looked at him waiting with baited breath while Ori half hid behind his shoulder. When Balin raised his head at last, Thorin could see the shock register in the widening of his bespectacled brown eyes.

“Thorin?” he exclaimed in a barely noticeable German accent. There was the beginning of a smile on his bearded face and Thorin found himself mirroring it.

“Balin, my friend.” he replied fondly. A moment later the greying, short man pulled him in a tight embrace, shaking his head in disbelief. When he released him, Thorin could see the sheen of tears glisten in Balin's eyes.

He opened his mouth to say something and then his bespectacled gaze fell on Ori and Balin did a double take.

“ _Mein Gott_ , Ori?” he breathed and she gave him an uncertain smile.

Balin looked at her for a breathless moment, before pulling her too in a fatherly embrace. Drawing apart he kept his arms on her shoulders and looked at her with wide eyes.

“How... I..” he shook his head “I'm glad to have you back ladd... _lassie_.” he corrected himself and Ori beamed at him.

“You too.” she told him.

Balin released Ori's shoulders and the three of them stood silent, too caught up in the moment. After the longest moment Thorin saw his cousin open his mouth to say something when a light cough from behind him made him turn his head. A skinny man spoke to Balin in fast German and now that Thorin's focus was back on his surroundings, he realised there was still a considerable amount of people waiting behind them.

“ _Ja, nat_ _u_ _rlich._ ” Balin told the younger man then turning to Thorin and Ori he said apologetically “ _Es tut mir Leid,_ but I have to finish things here. I'm flying to Essen tomorrow. Could we meet later today, perhaps?”

“Of course.” Thorin replied and they agreed to meet for dinner that evening.

  
  


Several hours later they were sitting at a secluded table in a corner of a restaurant Thorin had chosen – apparently it was one of Harriet's customary meeting places and it was conveniently close to where the conference had been held. They were halfway down their meal, trying to catch up lifetimes of events and Ori listened with rapture as Balin described his work, his travels, the family he had back in Essen. Ori had already known Balin was a professor at Ruhr Universität Bochum, but that was as far as her knowledge of him went.

Thorin was sitting silently to her right, listening intently as well.

Balin was currently talking about his family and when he told them that his wife too had lived once before as a dwarf, suddenly many of Ori's unspoken questions were answered.

In the hours she and Thorin had wandered aimlessly about London, each wrapped up in their thoughts while they had waited for the appointed dinner with Balin, Ori had pondered on Balin's reaction at seeing them. Save from a fond surprise she had seen no trace of the shock she had experienced when she had ran into Thorin the first time and realised she wasn't the only one reborn. It had puzzled her to no end, but the knowledge that his wife had been reborn as well, explained his lack of reaction to Ori.

“I hadn't known her.” Balin said with a smile, “But Gretchen, or Dóta as she used to be called, remembered seeing me in Erebor.”

“Did she move to the Blue Mountains?” Ori inquired, interested in the identity of the former dwarrowdam “Or was she amongst the Iron Hills refugees?”

She was always hungry for more informations about their past, their world.

“Neither.” said Balin with a downward curve of his lips. Then he added gravely “She never made it out of the Mountain the day the Dragon came.”

“Oh.” Ori bowed her head, throwing a glance at Thorin. His lips were drawn in a grim line and she cursed herself inwardly for steering the conversation towards unsteady ground. The Sack of Erebor was high on her mental list of forbidden topics and she needed to change the course of the conversation before it was too late

“I still can't believe I've been reading _your_ books all this time.” Ori blurted out.

And she truly could hardly believe it. After nearly a year of studying them meticulously, wondering just _how_ had that German scholar reached such wonderfully accurate conclusions, to find out that it had been Balin who had written them, her erstwhile teacher, companion and Lord... She shook her head in disbelief. Ori would most likely go and reread them all once again just to conciliate the image she had made of Prof. Weber inside her head with his real identity.

She hoped Balin would take the hint and do not press further about the day the Dragon had come. Ori knew it pained Thorin to talk about it and she had avoided it so far, always dancing around it when they had been discussing the past.

She bit her lip. He eyed them for a moment before smiling

“I'm glad you enjoyed them” he said, then blinking uncomfortably he added “ _lassie._ ”

Ori felt her lips quirk. It was a funny sight to see Balin struggle so much with her gender, especially when she hadn't paid it much thought. Since Thorin had never made any remark on it, Ori hadn't even considered the possibility that someone who had known her before might be baffled by it.

“ _Entschuldigung_ , Ori.” Balin said contritely and then, sighing he told her sincerely “I will need to get used to it. It had never occurred to me that something like that could happen. _Es ist seltsam._ ”

“No offence taken.” Ori told him with a warm smile. Then with a gesture that encompassed her body she admitted “I didn't find it strange, though. In fact I like it better this way.”

Balin tilted his head a bit, brown eyes twinkling in thought. She could see the wheels turnings.

“I actually have a theory, if it could help.” she piped in shyly and Balin nodded. With the corner of the eye she noticed Thorin look up from the almost empty plate in front of him he had been staring at since Balin had mentioned his wife's demise. She could tell he was listening to their conversation attentively and for the briefest moment she saw the flash of a memory, of many memories, of times during their journey to Erebor when he had done the exact same thing, sat in the background and listened.

Balin was looking at her expectantly and she sought the right words to express her theory. Numbers had never been her forte and it was all a matter of mathematics in this particular instance.

She sighed.

“Do you recall the ratio between male and female population amongst our former race?” she began and he nodded “For every two dwarrows there was one dwarrowdam.”

“Indeed.” Balin said.

“The ratio amongst humans, though is nearly fifty-fifty” she told him and saw the older man's brown eyes sparkle with realisation beyond the glass of his wire-rimmed spectacles.

“It would mean one in four dwarrows would have to be reborn as a woman.” Balin said slowly, then with a large smile he nodded to himself “To respect the statistics. It makes perfect sense, lassie.”

She was about to tell him more about her theory, mostly her own personal insights, but the waiter chose that instant to come and fetch their empty plates and she snapped her mouth shut. Some conversations were best not overheard.

A moment later the second course was placed in front of them and Thorin watched his oldest friend and advisor with a strange calm, despite the lingering discomfort of the bright, scorching memories Balin's words had summoned. Thankfully Ori had had the presence of mind to push the conversation in a different direction – like she always did and he couldn't help the shame he felt when he thought about how weak he had become. Words had grown more dangerous to him than any bullet or blade ever had been.

He blinked and turned his eyes to his left, observing her. The second the waiter had been out of earshot, Balin had resumed his lively discussion with Ori and now she was a whirlwind of gesticulation and enthusiastic nodding, her strawberry blond hair slowly spilling out of the small ponytail she had pulled it back into.

It was a sight to behold, watching her discuss. It was akin to a sparring match, only instead of sturdy dwarven steel it were hypotheses that were wielded.

She had changed so much from the the timid scribe he had known. The young woman that exchanged theories with his former advisor was more self-assured than he had ever seen Ori, even if her trademark shyness lingered on the edges, in the way she fidgeted her hands when she made a point she was unsure about, or worried her lip when Balin's retorts mined her hypotheses, regardless that he did so in his ever calm voice, the same one he had used countless times to try and reason with Thorin.

He felt a wave of fondness for his erstwhile advisor, his oldest friend. Balin had truly been a stalwart presence in his past life. He doubted he would have accomplished half of the feats he had accomplished without him to subtly guide him. Thorin was more than glad to have him back.

“With all due respect, Master Balin...” Ori began, trying to be gentle about her retort even if she utterly disagreed with the notion he had brought forth. They had been arguing the finer points of gender-identification in the Dwarven culture.

“ _Nein,_ no titles, lass.” her former master interrupted both her words and her thoughts with a shake of his greying head. He averted his eyes for a moment before he added almost inaudibly

“After all I had put you through...” his voice trailed in a shake of his head and Thorin frowned, wondering at Balin's words, just as Ori rebutted in the same tone she had used with him during the past summer whenever he had felt particularly quarrelsome about his rest – the Dori-like tutting that had made him huff in annoyance but sit down to ease his leg's recovery nonetheless.

“You put me through nothing I didn't choose myself.” she told him and then she added firmly “I knew what I was getting myself into when I followed you to Khazad-Dûm.”

He turned his head sharply in Ori's direction, levelling her with an inquiring gaze.

“Khazad-Dûm?” Thorin suddenly asked.

Balin sighed, hanging his head and Ori looked away from Thorin's sharp blue gaze forcing herself to act about it with the same calm rationality she used when she worked on her research. It was nothing but historical events.

In which Ori partook, a part of her mind retorted, but she paid the treacherous voice no heed. She shook her head lightly felling her hair finally slip out of the ponytail and onto her shoulders.

She had to remain rational.

Thorin was looking at them expectantly, clearly waiting for an explanation. She glanced in Balin's direction and taking the cue he began speaking in the voice of the amazing storyteller he had always been

“Nearly fifty years after the Battle of the Five Armies, as it was later dubbed” Balin began and Ori saw Thorin swallow but show no other reaction at the mention of the battle “we left Erebor.”

“Year after year the Lonely Mountain had began feeling less and less like our home”

Ori lost herself in the memories Balin summoned. The rebuilding of the kingdom, the endless work, the endless bitterness.

“Erebor prospered and Dáin was a good King,..”

“Dáin?” Thorin interrupted him sharply. “How..? Hadn't Kíli...”

Ori saw the confusion on Thorin's face and belatedly realised something that should have occurred to her earlier.

He couldn't have known about Kíli's death.

He hadn't seen it. Only the She-Elf, Tauriel, had been there to witness it. She closed her eyes for a moment, dreading the truth that had to be told.

“He doesn't know.” she whispered and Thorin sharply turned his blue eyes on her.

“I... I'm sorry Thorin.” she told him in a feeble voice, her eyes fleeing his gaze and he felt the cold grip on his lungs tighten. He shook his head, feeling like he was standing on the brink of a precipice and he clawed for a foothold. It couldn't be.

“The Defiler's spawn killed him on Ravenhill.” Balin told him gravely and the ground slipped under his feet “ _Es tut mir Leid,_ laddie.”

He was falling freely, his lungs closing in as images flooded his mind. The deep grating voice of his nemesis telling him he would see them die, he would see his line broken. He had thought, he had hoped in those last moments, he had... The edge of his vision blackened and a distant part of him tried to make him breathe, screamed at him that he could not lose himself, not now, but Thorin was falling freely and his lungs were closed. His heartbeats drummed in his ears and they were the clang of metal on metal, the pounding of hundreds of feet on the frozen ground.

Then someone grabbed his hand and it was so strange, so unexpected he lost sight for a moment of the approaching armies and looked down to where his oddly detached hand rested atop the table, gripping the napkin. On top of it, gripping firmly was a smaller freckled hand. He frowned in confusion, even as the blackness still lingered on the edge of his sight.

He should have passed out already, he thought distantly.

It took him a moment to realise he was breathing, albeit shallowly and he dazedly kept looking at the hand placed atop his hand, the echo of the fray still reverberating in his ears.

Ori had seen Thorin's jaw set and his eyes begin to lose focus. Acting on instinct she had grasped his hand and squeezed it tightly, trying to give him a measure of comfort. She didn't know if he would welcome it, but the frozen look in his eyes was too much to bear. Thorin's eyes slowly drifted towards their joint hands. He wasn't pulling away and she swallowed back all the embarrassment and kept holding. Balin looked at first at Thorin, then at her, his greying eyebrows knitting in a contemplative frown above the rim of his glasses.

She worried her lip, wondering if she should say anything, but words fled her.

After the longest moment of silence, where the background voices of the other customers became almost too loud, Thorin's voice nearly startled her

“You were talking of Khazad-Dûm.” he said thickly.

She exhaled a breath she hadn't realised she had been holding and made to pull away her hand, but Thorin's caught it in his own and this time she properly flushed. It was silly, it was meant as a measure of comfort, and yet the echo of her mother's words fluttered about her mind.

Balin nodded and resumed his tale with a wary look in his eyes.

“ _Ja,_ as I said, Erebor no longer felt like home” his voice banished all foolish thoughts and she listened to the tale she had known too well

“After many years of weighing and wondering one day I decided I was too old to waste the last years of my life bemoaning what could have been and set my mind to reclaim our true home: The Halls Of Durin.”

“I gathered a company of foolhardy dwarrows and after much struggle we did reclaim it.”

He gave her a small sad smile.

“It was Pyrrhic victory and only an apparent one at that.” Balin said with a serious voice, almost grave and Thorin knew what would follow.

“Óin and Ori were the only members of the original Company to follow me. Upon my death it was left to them to lead our folk.”

“Óin led us.” Ori spoke flatly, taking over the tale “For five years we struggled, buried alive in the Halls of Moria.”

Her voice had a strange timbre, one that Thorin had never heard before. There was nothing youthful, nothing cheerful in it. It was the voice of man resigned to die. He squeezed her smaller hand, not even thinking about his actions, about holding it in the first place, the same way he did not wish to think about the panic attack he had narrowly escaped by sheer miracle. By Ori's doing.

It was unbearable to gaze into her eyes and see the hopelessness she must had felt and Thorin felt a faint surge of anger that defied any numbness he felt in the wake of the panic. Anger towards Balin for taking Ori into Khazad-Dûm. No matter the explanation he couldn't understand what would have possessed his former advisor to go on such a foolish quest.

A quest as foolish as his own endeavour had been.

The thought alone was enough to quell his wrath.

He would be a hypocrite to blame Balin for his own sins.

“The goblins cut us down, dwarf by dwarf.” Ori continued in the same dead voice “Until nothing but a handful of us remained. We barricaded in the chamber Balin had been laid under stone.”

“And there we took our last stand.”

“I spent the last hours of my life recording everything” Ori shook her head, with a bitter curve of her lips “I took three arrows in the chest and still I was writing. Until they came.”

“Fire and shadow.” she said barely audibly, then reached for her glass of wine, gulping it down.

“I am deeply sorry, Ori. _Glaube mir._ ” Balin told her and she gave a light shake of her head “I shouldn't have taken you along.”

“I would have come anyway.” she told him “Erebor was not my home. I... I could not stay there, not after everything.”

She lowered her head and Thorin felt a fresh wave of guilt hit him. It had been all his fault, he knew.

“I have failed you all.” he told them, feeling the weight of two lifetimes of wrong choices on his shoulders.

Balin looked at him in his usual paternal way saying

“Don't blame yourself, laddie” just as Ori exclaimed

“You haven't failed us!” whatever graveness she had been shrouded in was being shed as her deeply buried fierceness resurfaced.

“ _We_ have failed you. We should have been there, fighting by your side. You shouldn't have had to sacrifice for us, for Erebor. It should have been you, sitting on the throne Under the Mountain, not Dáin.”

“The Dwarf Lord who had refused his help in reclaiming the Mountain.” she hissed with a tinge of outrage, keeping her voice low.

“Did he go through toil and suffering to free our homeland from the Dragon? Did he fight Trolls, Orcs, Stone-giants, Goblins, Giant spiders, a _Dragon_? Did he rot for a month in an Elven dungeon, despairing? Did he?”

She shook her head with vehemence, locking her eyes with him.

“No. He strode in and saved the day and it earned him a crown, while you, who had earned every inch of your kingship, you were _buried_ with the Arkenstone on your chest. ”

Her voice grew quiet when she said the last part, putting on the armour of her shyness as quickly as she had shod it in her rightful anger. Only her eyes remained firm and Balin's reflected the sentiment in Ori's.

Thorin was taken aback by their loyalty. After everything, after all he had done, all the wrongness, all the suffering he had put them through. After he had suspected them, nearly had them killed, they still felt he was _worthy_? It was beyond his ability to believe and he told them so.

“I was not worthy to be a King.”

“You were and you still are, laddie, even if Erebor is no more.” Balin said and Ori nodded firmly, tightening her fingers around his hand.

 

  
  


  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been mulling on Kíli's death for a while and unless I am mistaken, Thorin couldn't have seen it, since he was otherwise occupied at the moment and so he couldn't have known about it.  
> If I actually am mistaken about that, well, bear with me. It would be too much trouble to rewrite that whole portion of the chapter and still make it work. :(  
> Feel free to point it out, though, so I can add a "canon-divergencies" tag or something akin. I utterly respect canon and if I messed up a bit in this chapter, I most sincerely apologise. 
> 
> Chapter title taken from “The Words That Maketh Murder” by PJ Harvey.
> 
> Translations:  
> Ein Moment, bitte - A moment, please.  
> Mein Gott – Good Gracious / Dear God / Dear Goodness / etc.  
> Ja, naturlich. - Yes, naturally / Yes, of course.  
> Es tut mir Leid – I am sorry.  
> Entschuldigung – Sorry.  
> Es ist seltsam – It is strange.  
> Nein – No.  
> Ja – Yes.  
> Glaube mir – Believe me.


	13. A box just for wishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pair of fools.

 

The rain was streaming down the window-panes in rivulets, smudging the view of the leaden grey sky that pressed above the rooftops of the neighbouring houses and Ori stopped for a moment before the bay window, looking at darkening street outside, before pulling the curtains closed. There was music playing on the stereo and she hummed in tune with the melody of “Bohemian Rhapsody” as she sat back on the sofa and grabbed her knitting needles.

It was strange to be alone on a Saturday afternoon, but Thorin had gone to Cardiff to meet with his sister, whom he hadn't seen since the accident in August. Ori found it strange that they had chosen to meet so close to his upcoming birthday, but not for the occasion itself. Thorin's relationship with Harriet was one she couldn't understand. Ori had had difficult moments with Dori and Nori in the past, but she couldn't imagine not seeing each other for months to no end without longing for her siblings' company.

She couldn't imagine it because, despite the lifetime that separated her from them and the spot Janet had wedged for herself in Ori's heart, Ori still felt an emptiness inside her only her original family could fill.

Except for those bleak last years, spent in the darkness of the Halls of Durin, Nori and Dori had always been a constant presence in Ori's life and she often wondered how different would her current life be if they would be around. Dori with his mother-hen attitude and his incessant tutting. Nori with his cynicism and his cocky way of dodging rules – just guidelines, he would say, and besides where's the fun if you do everything properly? She missed them achingly, sometimes.

It was nice to be independent, to have the almost absolute freedom in making her choices – Janet believed and often said that her daughter should choose her path on her own, that it would make her a bad parent if she steered her in any direction whatsoever - but despite Dori's and Nori's incessant meddling Ori had done so in the past as well. The choice to sign the contract and join the Quest had been Ori's alone and Dori and Nori had chosen to come along only for the sake of keeping their younger brother safe – after a series of lengthy discussions, scoldings, Dori's offended pouting and a decent amount of yelling from Nori's part, that is.

The decision to join Balin later, had also been Ori's own choice. In hindsight she knew, it would have been wise to listen to Dori on that occasion and never leave Erebor, but Ori had chosen to follow Balin and reaped the consequences.

She finished a row and began the next, changing the yarn colour. The last notes of the song played and the introductory ones of “I want to break free” grew in strength. She lifted her eyes from her work and huffed a surprised chuckle at the stereo. Óin would have called it an omen - personally she just thought an uplifting song such as that one was exactly what she needed to distract herself from that morose train of consciousness. She shook her head.

In the past week she had been forced to think about too many things she would have rather left alone. She truly needed to break free. It was not good to linger on all those memories, to relive those moments. And in spite of her research she usually managed to do just so, to steer clear from an emotional interpretation of the events she had witnessed and to observe events with detachment and objectivity. But the unexpected meeting with Balin had thrown her somewhat off balance.

Ori lowered the needles on her lap, sighing.

Despite her meticulous work on her research she had mostly avoided thinking about the last years of her past life. And Ori would have been happy to continue doing so for the foreseeable future. She knew it was a blemish on her professionalism – Ori's death was part of an important historical event and she had a scientific duty to document all events with the same objectivity. But she couldn't.

She grimaced, getting her focus back on the sleeve she was knitting. She counted the rows to make sure the stripe of darker green she was currently working on was not larger than the one beneath. Satisfied with the result, she resumed her rhythmical motions, knitting the last row in that particular colour before she switched on a new one.

Science or no science, it was undeniable that the encounter with Balin had taken its toll on both Thorin and her. Their reunion would have been an overall pleasant thing, if not for the direction the conversation had taken at some point and she feared how the future ones would go – after giving them his contact informations Balin had told them he would return to London as soon as he could manage.

Ori knew it was unfair, Balin was a good man, had been the most loyal of dwarves and invaluable with his knowledge and diplomatic skills.

She had been thoroughly shocked by the revelation that Klaus Weber was in fact none other than Balin and she knew she should be elated to have him back in their lives. But her heart wasn't in it. While his presence was a comfort in many aspect – the hope that her brothers could be around not the least amongst them - Ori had the unyielding certainty his appearance was going to pull many forgotten moments of their past out of their hiding places and make them acknowledge many elephants in the room. And she couldn't help worrying.

Not so much for her own sake – the worst was behind her and save from touching that particular subject or the overall longing she felt for her brothers, there wasn't much to fret about. No, she worried for Thorin's.

His reaction to Kíli's death was something she would not forget so easily. It had made something twist painfully inside her chest. That _look_ in his eyes which Ori would be happy never to see again. The desperation, the emptiness, the _death_ in his gaze and the shade of something that looked like fear. She hadn't been able to bear seeing it so she had reached out instinctively, taking hold of his hand.

And he had not pulled away.

She bit her lip, looking down on the apple green wool thread she had just began knitting onto the dark green stripe, and felt a blush heat her cheeks. She remembered the way it had felt when he had turned his hand under hers and his long slightly calloused fingers had closed around her hand, grasping it firmly. She recalled the warmth of his palm against her palm and her heart began beating loudly in her ears.

Her blush deepened. Ori knew it was all her mother's fault, for insisting with her barely veiled implications. There was absolutely no reason to feel embarrassed about it. It had meant absolutely nothing, save from the mean of conveying comfort it had been intended as. It had been basic human contact, not anything further. And if Thorin had kept holding her hand throughout the whole conversation, until the arrival of the waiter bringing them dessert had forced them to break apart, it meant nothing. Surely it wasn't because he had any kind of interest in her. In fact, it was rather unlikely if her past-life's intuition had been right – while Bilbo, the one person she had been pretty sure Thorin had been interested in, was no longer around, he _had_ been distinctly male, so.

Not that _she_ had any kind of interest in Thorin. At all. It was absolutely preposterous. Thorin was her friend and any fondness she felt for him stemmed out of the mutual respect and shared past. There was most definitely nothing romantic about it.

Yes, it was true that she _had_ noticed he was rather good-looking. But it was merely an aesthetic appraisal. Anyone would have noticed it. He was tall and broad-shouldered, the textbook definition of fit. And it that wasn't enough, there were his eyes, that ever changing shade of blue that looked like the sky had been trapped inside them. His piercing eyes, capable of the most freezing glares and at the same time able to hold a sparkle of mirth and – on preciously rare occasions – mischief.

It was an undeniable fact that he was handsome - in a dark and somewhat brooding way, but attractive nonetheless. It would have taken a blind person to miss it – although even then, her mind supplied, there would be his voice to marvel upon, that rich baritone that had the ability to hold the attention of whomever was listening, in rapture. That voice that had been capable of inspiring loyalty and conveying grief. That sent chills down her spine when it dropped lower.

She had heard him sing in her past life and the memory was a vivid one. The low hum, the barely whispered lines of the song. If Ori had ever doubted the decision of joining the Quest, that night in front of the hearth in Bilbo's parlour, had steeled Ori's resolve. Thorin had been and still was a King Ori would follow to the edge of the world. And beyond.

He was her King. And that made it rather inappropriate to even entertain notions such as the ones her mother suggested.

It was one thing to notice his appearance and one altogether different to consider him, well, like _that_. She dropped her head, blushing.

She put down the knitting needles, with a huff and glared in embarrassment at the half done sleeve for her mother's vest. This was all Janet's doing. And she shouldn't deserve the hours Ori spent knitting a Christmas present for her, not after all the trouble she had stirred inside Ori's head,

Putting away her knitting, she got up from the sofa and walked to the stereo. She took the cover of the “Best Of” she was listening and looked for something to take her mind off, well, everything, really. Her mother's theories, Thorin's reaction to the revelation of Kíli's demise which had made him brood in silence for days in the solitude of his study, and ultimately the burden of the memories of Ori's death that had been dug out of the dust where they had been sleeping without bothering her for two decades.

The whirlwind of conflicting emotions that lingered in the house since the dinner with Balin had become almost overwhelming as the days had passed by and she hoped that at least on Thorin's part something would be made better by his meeting with his sister. It would be a small consolation to him, but Harriet truly cared about him, Ori had seen it. And he cared equally for her in his own way. Perhaps his past family had been taken away from him, but he still had Harriet, just like Ori had her mother. Her incredibly impish and frustrating mother.

She put “Under Pressure” on and raised the volume, letting all her worries be washed away by the beat of the music.

  
  


Thorin stabbed his food with irritation, wondering for the third time since he had sat down in the posh restaurant Harriet had chosen for their dinner, why he had chosen to come to Cardiff in the first place. Surely being a decent brother didn't have to include spending a whole meal listening to his sister who - if the things she was saying were any indication - had obviously taken leave of her senses.

It hadn't been enough that Harriet had customarily nagged and inquired about his almost fully recovered leg, in addition to her pontifications about safety in traffic, but when answering her questions about Ori's stay, he had mentioned that the younger woman shared his home now, Harriet had arched a meticulously shaped eyebrow and her blue eyes had lit up in a way he had not liked at all. And that had been the beginning.

The tone she had used when she had spoken next should have been an indication of the direction the conversation was taking.

“Really?” she had asked before she had proceeded with the most absurd observation – which is precisely when he had began questioning his sister's sanity.

“Isn't she a bit young?” she asked him, carefully cutting the meat on her plate. He met her eyes, blinking.

“Am I supposed to understand what you are saying?” he retorted with a question of his own, having no patience to unriddle her statements.

“Don't play daft, John.” she rebutted, looking at him unimpressed. Then leaning her cutlery on the edge of her plate she said

“I'm just wondering if you know what you're getting yourself into. I could probably be her mother. She's what, fifteen years younger than you?”

“Thirteen.” he replied automatically, before adding tersely “And I still don't see why is her age of any relevance.”

“For your sake I hope you're right.” Harriet replied flatly with a shrug of her bony shoulders.

He looked at her with a frown. In all the years since their mother's death he had never thought he would miss Harriet's complaints about every aspect of his life, from his choice of career to his preferred blend of tea, but sitting there and listening to the present nonsensical conversation made him long for the simple irritation of her usual nagging.

He did not reply, choosing instead to finish the forgotten food on his plate. Harriet pursed her lips, toying with the stem of her glass.

“Look, I would be a hypocrite if I were to judge you for this choice.” she told him, lifting the glass and taking a sip of her rosé “The girl seemed decent enough, anyway.”

“But she is twenty-one, John. I understand the allure of youth, but she has the best years of her life ahead.” she continued while Thorin's frown deepened.

“I regretted settling down so early - even if I don't regret having had Evan.” she said, then giving him a pointed look “I would hate to see you hurt.”

And the meaning of her words began to sink in. Thorin blinked, distantly wondering whether to be indignant or worried for his sister's obvious delusions. They were absurd, utterly absurd, and he shook his head in disbelief mixed with annoyance.

She had obviously not finished her lecture, but before she had the time to sputter – no doubt – some other inanity, he levelled her one of his well-practised glares

“Harriet.” he cut in and she snapped her mouth shut, setting her lips in a thin line, surely prompted by his clipped tone.

“I offered her a place to stay because Or... _Anne_ ” he corrected his near slip “is my friend. Nothing more.”

The latter was said with the most earnest tone and Harriet arched an eyebrow again, finishing her wine. There was a shrewd look in her eyes that for an instant reminded Thorin of Balin when she said simply

“I see.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“You see what, exactly?” he demanded, not liking at all the small sneer that curled her painted lips.

“Nothing you should concern with, John.” she replied airily, giving him a grin that showed her teeth almost ferally “Not yet at least”

Thorin felt peeved and wanted to demand an explanation on what exactly what had his sister meant but she had tactically waved at the waiter for the bill, busying herself. Thorin cursed himself for being predictable and her for knowing him too well.

He looked at Harriet for a moment in annoyed exasperation. What in Durin's name had possessed her to think he and Ori were... He shook his head. The notion itself was beyond harebrained. Ori was, well, _Ori_. His former scribe, his housemate and moreover his friend. That she was important to him was undeniable, but to think that he would get _involved_ with her was absolutely inane.

He gulped his glass of wine. It was unthinkable.

And yet a small part of him – that awfully ruthless part of his consciousness – disagreed with him. It was thinkable. Wasn't it? Hadn't he thought, that evening when they had sat with Balin in another restaurant and his world had been on the verge of crumbling to pieces, hadn't he thought that nothing had felt so right in the longest time as holding her small, slightly freckled hand in his? As freckled as the skin on the juncture between her jaw and neck which would be exposed when she wore her hair in a ponytail, his mind supplied and he swallowed dryly

He took another gulp of wine, downing the thing and pushing, pulling, trying to wipe the image from his mind, but instead he remembered the way her red-blonde hair would stick in all directions in the morning, while she would yawn her way into the kitchen. He tightened his grip on the glass. The light would catch in it, setting it aflame.

Then there was the way she bit her bottom lip when she was worried and the red trace that would be left in the wake of her teeth, the way those same lips would curve into a beaming smile and the sound of her laughter, the way she sometimes muttered under her breath when she was annoyed and how endearing it was to see her put her hand on her hip when she tutted, eyeing him with those dark eyes of hers.

Her eyes. Framed by dark blond lashes that would flutter closed when she would fall asleep on her armchair, hair all askew and usually a book tightly gripped in her freckled hands.

“John?” Harriet called him and he snapped out of his reverie, just as his mind had returned to the starting point of Ori's hand in his, of the warmth of her skin and a cold sense of realisation settled in his gut.

“ _John_?” she repeated and he swallowed before croaking

“What?”

Harriet gave him a withering look and shook her head with a huff.

“I'll call you in a couple of days.” she told him, getting up from her seat and he frowned for a moment, motionless, before he remembered it would be his birthday on the 4th and he nodded.

They stiffly exchanged their goodbyes and he walked in a daze towards the taxi that would lead him to his usual hotel. He sat back on the seat, running his fingers through his hair while he looked at the lights speed by. He tried to find a plausible explanation, without indulging in his denial. Any, at all. Grasping at straws, but none would hold. There was no explanation. None.

He was attracted to her.

He leaned his head onto his hand. It was a disaster.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Time In A Bottle” by Jim Croce.


	14. Without a map

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts and belated epiphanies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This had been nearly as hard to write as the first chapter of this fic (although, at least it didn't take me three weeks to write this one...). Enjoy!

 

The house was utterly silent but for the faint sound of a car speeding by in the street below, tyres splashing as they passed over a puddle. Thorin turned on his back, staring at the outline of the window painted on his bedroom's ceiling by the street-light.

He put an arm under his head, silently huffing in frustration. It was late and he wanted to sleep. The past day had been tiresome, between the early train ride from Cardiff to London and driving to Worthing to see his Uncle.

He had neglected to visit him since the car accident and it had been good to see him, especially since Tony had been having one of his lucid days. The old man had actually recognised Thorin and the warm smile he had given his nephew had made Thorin forget all his inner turmoil for a blessed afternoon.

They had sat inside as the rain had poured ceaselessly over the almost bare garden, pulling along the last yellowed leaves from the trees, and Thorin had spoken to his Uncle about everything. About Harriet and Evan, his work, the accident in August, everything. Everything but Ori. When it had come to her, he had bitten his tongue, not knowing what to say. He had spent a whole day cravenly avoiding thinking of her – as cravenly as his choice to go and visit Tony rather than face her – and when he should have told Tony about her, words had fled him.

While he had sat there, in the care house's common room Thorin had been able to pretend nothing had changed. But in the darkness of his bedroom, his mind had caught up with him and denied him the rest he needed. Every time he closed his eyes his mind summoned snippets of memories, brief flashes of images and sounds that made his heartbeats skip.

And it was hard to banish them, when a part of him wanted nothing better than indulge in these thoughts - after all it was all he could have, he reasoned. But he could not. He would not. No matter how alluring those images of red-blonde hair and freckled skin were, no matter how easy it would be to lose himself in the memory of a smile, of an innocent nudge with her elbow, of the chiming sound of her laughter.

Thorin glared at the ceiling wondering if there was ever going to be any respite for him.

When he had finally managed not to think about Kíli for a change, not to feel the overwhelming guilt and the crippling sense of defeat he had experienced since that evening with Balin when he had learned the final piece of the harsh truth - that a cruel part of him had suspected all along - when his mind had been able to unhook itself from that line of reminiscence it had been only to throw him out of the frying pan and into the fire. Scorching fire that burned close, flames licking the walls of control he had painstakingly built around his conscience, threatening to undo him.

He closed his eyes shut, willing the thoughts away, but the darkness behind his lids became coppery blonde hair dancing in the sunlight and the silence of the room reverberated with the echo of her voice. His heart drummed and he nearly groaned in frustration. Snapping his eyes open he irritably shifted under the covers, turning on his side and half-burying his head in the pillow with more force than necessary.

It was a disaster. And it was all of his own doing. He should have never allowed himself to develop an interest in her. An _attraction_ , his mind corrected harshly. He knew, to a degree that it was beyond his control, but it did not stop Thorin from blaming himself. He should have realised it sooner, before it had reached this magnitude.

Thorin stared at the green digits on the alarm clock placed upon the bedside table, unblinking. As difficult as it was going to be he was going to put a stop to it. He owed Ori as much. He would not ruin their friendship, even if it took spending countless nights tossing and turning in his bed – like he was presently doing - even if it took every ounce of self control to stop his own thoughts. One way or the other he was going to put a stop to this foolishness.

He treasured what they had too much to risk it. He treasured _her_ too much.

  
  


It was Tuesday afternoon and the rain poured viciously like it had been nearly ceaselessly doing for the past days. The raindrops were beating loudly on the kitchen window, perfectly in tune with Ori's mood in a pattern between annoyance and nervousness. She was leaning with her palms on the kitchen counter, cursing herself and her work ethics for not having skipped the Manuscripts and Documents double lessons. She had hardly paid any attention to what the professor had been saying anyway, too caught up in her own thoughts and worries.

So much in fact that Lucy and Nicole had noticed it and had offered - like they had been doing for the past month – to take Ori out for a drink after lessons. They had done so with a measure of concern and Ori had felt somewhat guilty to dismiss them with a hurried “Sorry, no time” before she had nearly ran to catch the train.

But she had had no time. Ori _should_ have gotten back home after lunch. Missing a lesson would have made everything easier and she doubted the world would have collapsed for it.

Unlike the sponge cake she was currently staring at in dismay. Ori sighed, disheartened.

She was desperately looking for a way to salvage it before she channelled her inner Dori and threw the somewhat crooked thing away. But she had no time to bake a new one. She had only a couple of hours at best before Thorin returned home and it wouldn't do to have a half-way finished birthday cake.

She knew he didn't celebrate the occasion, but Thorin had been maudlin since their encounter with Balin and upon his return from Cardiff his mood had only gotten worse, so Ori was willing to go to any lengths in the hope of distracting him.

She rotated the horizontal slice, trying to make the unevenness less obvious, but it helped little. She sighed loudly. Why couldn't she have inherited her eldest brother's baking skills? Dori had been amazing with his cakes and tarts and, oh, his _biscuits_. Even Janet was better at baking than her despite her odd fixation with strange fresh green food – hadn't she known better Ori would have suspected her mother of having been an Elf in her past life.

Shaking her head at the sight of her poor attempt at baking a simple cake, she decided the only thing to do would be camouflage. So, leaving the cake be, she set to work on the icing.

While she chopped the pieces of chocolate her mind turned to Thorin, once again, and to her frustration at being unable to help him. Ori knew he had taken the news of Kíli's death badly and that silently mulling over whatever plagued his mind was his natural reaction, but ever since they had met in this life she had always been able to pull him out of his moods, one way or the other - her mind replayed the dinner with Balin and the way he had held her her hand and Ori felt a flush rise to her cheeks that had nothing to do with the heat in the kitchen.

She turned the cooker on, slowly melting the chocolate in the pan and biting her lip. She didn't know how to help him. In the past two days any attempt at conversation had been met with nothing but curt – and dismissive – replies and she couldn't shake the feeling that he had been avoiding her lately.

She grimaced.

Even if her rational mind told her it had nothing to do with her – or at least she hoped so – his behaviour made something tug viciously inside her chest. He was one of the most important people in Ori's current life, very likely as important as Janet was and the thought – far-fetched as it was – of him rejecting their friendship – rejecting _her_ \- was too hard to even contemplate.

She was overreacting, she knew, but she had never felt so helpless as she had in the past days. And lonely.

Ori had gotten used to the constancy of his company, even if it often was just his silent and somewhat brooding presence, but the dinner with Balin had made Thorin even less sociable and in the past two days he had been altogether absent. After his return from Cardiff he had barely been home before going to visit his Uncle – and Ori _had not_ sat in the living room all afternoon compulsively knitting while she tried not to think of the way Thorin's last trip to Worthing had ended. On Monday he had gone to work before she had even gotten up from bed, returning too late to take supper together like they usually did.

Ori knew he needed to process his grief. She stirred the chocolate in the pan with grim determination. She could not even begin to imagine how hard it had been for him to accept Balin's tidings - Kíli had been his nephew, almost a son to him and to find out he had been killed, that Azog had succeeded in his plan, wiping away his line... She shook her head with a morose frown. Ori understood his pain and she knew there was little she could do to ease his burden - nothing, in truth, except trying to put his mind off those thoughts - but _by Mahal_ , she was going to try. She could not bear seeing him so miserable.

And if she had to exploit his poorly disguised weakness for chocolate in order to do so, so be it.

  
  


Thorin closed the front door and put his dripping umbrella in the stand. It had been a thoroughly miserable day, Roberts was sick and the girl they had sent to replace him was even shyer than him - when Harriet had called with her customary well-wishing, his temporary P.A. had barely managed to stutter who was calling before she had put his sister through - and Harriet, with her usual attitude had done nothing to improve the _stellar_ day he was having. Then he had missed lunch, because the meeting they had been having had dragged on longer that planned.

And on top of it all he was drenched.

He lowered his briefcase on the floor and peeled off his damp jacket and shoes. He glared at the offending garments in irritation. He had never cared for birthdays, but this one was turning particularly sour. Thorin couldn't wait to grab something to eat, have a shower and go to sleep.

He finished hanging his drenched jacked when the sound of Ori humming in the kitchen registered and he hesitated by the coat-rack, invisible strings pulling him towards her company while at the same time the rational knowledge that it was better to avoid her for the time being, kept him rooted on the spot.

Thorin's hands clenched and unclenched on his side. He truly wanted nothing better than walk into the kitchen and see her smile at him like she always did while she talked to him about whatever was on her mind on the moment - history usually, but sometimes it were anecdotes, both from this and their past lives. He wanted nothing so strongly than being around her, watching her hands fly in the air while she talked and her hair caught the light of the kitchen lamp. But he also wanted to tuck that hair behind her ear and expose the freckled curve of her neck. He wanted to sneak an arm around her waist and pull her close... His heartbeats sped up as his rebellious mind indulged in unfulfillable wishes.

Wishes that could ruin their friendship. He had to get her out of his mind. But it was hard to do so when she was around all the time, when her presence, her actions, all that was _her_ , did nothing to quell his infatuation. It was better to avoid her. Swallowing thickly he put his mind under control and squared his jaw deciding to stride straight to his room and forego supper.

He had to get his mind under control.

Silently he strode toward the staircase and he had nearly reached it when Ori's voice stopped him mid-stride.

“Thorin?” she called, her head soon peeking out of the kitchen's doorway “You're home!”

She stood in the doorway, wearing a hesitant smile and her hands fidgeted with the hem of her violet shirt.

“Um, happy birthday.” she said shyly, catching her lip with her teeth and he stared at her silently, not trusting his voice. “I... I made a cake?”

Why had that come out as question? She had fully intended to do it all properly, and instead here she was, stuttering and making a fool of herself. Thorin was looking at her with a haunted expression and she bit her lip. She lowered her head, glancing at him from under her eyebrows. He was wearing the strangest look, painful and almost _conflicted_? It made that twisting knot inside her stomach pull tighter. She felt helpless

“Why?” he asked after the longest time and she looked up from her lap.

“Because it's your birthday” she said in a small voice “And well, I.. I thought you might like it. It's chocolate...”

His expression changed to something unreadable and he stared at her. Ori felt her attempt at cheering him up sink slowly into the grey carpet of the hallway and she sighed in defeat while she distantly wondered when she had lost the ability of distracting him. It had used to be so easy she had taken it for granted.

“Nevermind.” she told him in a barely audible voice, turning back to the kitchen with her head bowed and he felt that coil of barbed wire bite deeper inside his chest. He looked at her hunched shoulders under the violet shirt and hated himself. It was not right.

“Thank you.” he told her and she whipped her head in his direction with a hopeful expression. “For the cake. You didn't have to.”

She smiled.

“I wanted to.” she replied more firmly. Faintly he registered his feet moving him towards the kitchen.

“Are you going to eat it?” she asked, suddenly shy again, fidgeting with her hands.

“You want me to spoil dinner?” he retorted, with an arched eyebrow, awkwardly setting back into their usual banter. The cautious part of his mind screamed at him, but he chose to ignore it.

“I made dinner as well.” she told him with a hesitant grin. “Come on, then.”

  
  


Two hours later he was nursing a glass of wine, sitting on the sofa next to Ori who was regaling him with a tale of Nori and his escape from the guards, back in the Blue Mountains. He remembered that particular tale, Dwalin had told him of it, seething with rage against the thief who had slipped between his fingers yet again and in such an embarrassing way for the former.

Ori's tale, however, was far more entertaining. It brimmed with details on his cousin's antics that made him chuckle in amusement. He had known Dwalin for the near entirety of his past life and the gruff dwarf had been one of his closest friends – not to mention the only one who was allowed to beat him senseless on the training field without incurring in his anger. Thorin recalled him with a great fondness, especially the younger dwarf's bluntness, so he enjoyed the tale thoroughly.

And Ori herself was a sight to behold. Her hands flew around, gesticulating and he silently observed her while she spoke, piping in only when Nori's tale differed from Dwalin's, to her utter amusement – it was obvious the thief, like Dwalin himself, had skipped over the less glorious portions of the story.

There was an almost childish joy in her expression and Thorin couldn't help grinning at her. Between her obvious love for the tale she was telling and the several glasses of wine she had drunk she was a whirlwind of words and movement.

He looked down at his own glass, resisting the urge to down it and let go, the way she was doing. But he knew it was better if he contained himself, everything considered. It was already bad enough he was here with her, sitting an arm-length's away – his heart aflutter and his eyes committing every gesture, every smile to memory. It was bad enough his mind would torture him with them later, in the darkness of his bed, when his sleep would elude him, like it had eluded him for the best part of the past two nights. He couldn't risk losing his composure and doing something stupid, like indulging the urge to draw her closer...

“And then he jumped over the wall...” she startled him from his thoughts and he took a gulp of wine.

“Dwalin said he tripped over it.” Thorin corrected her, glad his voice had managed to remain even.

“I doubt Nori tripped.” Ori said with a laugh “He was too sure-footed for that.”

Then she leaned closer – his breath hitched in his throat – lowering her voice conspiratorially

“I think Dwalin is lying to cover up for the fact that he was the one who failed to notice the low wall. It was sheer luck that he landed on top of Nori, not that it helped him, since my brother wiggled his way out, anyway.”

Her eyes twinkled with mischief and he found himself smirking, despite his breathlessness.

“You might be right.” he told her, blue eyes dancing with a mixture of mirth and something else she could not name.

“Your version of it seems more plausible.” he said, not breaking eye-contact and then asked “Have I told you of the time Dwalin and I travelled to Dunland?”

Ori shook her head and Thorin's smirk grew wider. They were sitting close, she realised, but at the same time she couldn't, in the haze of her mind, think of a reason to move apart.

“I think you will like it.” he said and began his tale.

Ori listened to him, almost lulled by his voice. There was something almost mesmerising about it, something that made the words sink in deeper and coil beneath her skin. She couldn't have stopped listening him even if she had wanted to. And she didn't.

Ori chuckled when Thorin reached a particularly amusing part. She noticed he was trying to keep a straight face as he continued his tale, but she could see laughter in his cornflower eyes and the almost imperceptible twitch of his lips. There was something in his reticence that made her chuckle grow into proper laughter.

“Are you laughing at me?” he asked her in a serious tone, arching an eyebrow, but the overall effect was ruined by the curve of his lips.

“I'm afraid I am.” she told him, grinning and finishing the content of her glass of wine. Thorin shook his head in silent laughter.

Ori looked at his mock exasperation and the lightness in his gaze. His eyes were smiling, faint crowfeet gathering at the edges and his mouth was curved in an almost boyish grin. She wished she could hold this expression on his face forever. It was the rightest thing she had ever seen and the sight made something knot tightly inside her stomach.

His grin drifted into a smile, the simplest genuine curve of his lips and her breath caught in her throat. Every thought fled from her mind as her gaze locked with his. She breathlessly, thoughtlessly leaned forward. And pressed her lips onto his.

Thorin froze.

It was the lightest touch. It left him breathless. It was warm and soft and _everything._

And just as his mind registered what was happening it was gone.

He snapped his eyes open – when had he closed them? – just in time to see Ori's mortified expression before she nearly ran out of the living room, stumbling on her feet.

He stared wide-eyed at her retreating form, too dazed to react. His heartbeats pounded in his ears.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to matmak who made me think about Thorin's birthday celebration. ;)
> 
> Chapter title taken from “Last Stand” by Koda.


	15. These paper dolls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts that linger.

 

The bedroom door clicked closed and Ori leaned on the smooth wood, feeling her knees give away. She slid down to the carpeted floor, her heartbeats still loudly pounding in her ears. Her hands trembled and her thoughts were a maelstrom that raged in tune with the pounding of her heart inside her ribcage.

Mahal, what had she done?

She lowered her head to her knees, shaking it and feeling the room spin around her. Whether it was from the wine she had drunk or from the emotional roller-coaster that was currently making her heart somersault and freeze at the same time, she didn't know – nor potentially care.

She had... she had _kissed_ him.

Ori cradled her head in her hands, shaking it in a mixture of denial and disbelief. Why... how... _what_ had possessed her to do such a thing? What had she been thinking?

She hadn't. Been thinking, that was. She had acted on the spur of the moment, _stupidly_ and... Oh, dear. She had kissed Thorin.

She had kissed _him_.

Ori buried her head deeper in the crook of her elbow. She didn't even _fancy_ him, for crying out loud. Why would she have done such a thing?

Her mind went to supply with an answer, but she stopped herself before following a train of thought that fuzzily reminded her of her mother's insistent notions about Thorin and her. Silly, harebrained ideas. It was true, she _did_ find him handsome, but that didn't mean she had any interest in him _that way._ She didn't.

And yet, despite the conflicting chaos of emotions and the slight wine-induced haze that didn't seem to lift itself from her mind, Ori couldn't deny the brief moment the kiss had lasted had been nothing short of, well, _breathtaking._ It had been like finding the missing piece of data to construct a theory or like discovering a long lost reference in a poem.

It had been like gazing at the Lonely Mountain for the first time, bathed in sunlight from atop the Carrock.

And her heart had nearly burst within her chest, her whole body wanting nothing but to get _closer_. If Thorin hadn't frozen... Ori swallowed dryly.

It was the worst thing she could have done, Mahal be merciful. She had kissed him.

Regardless of whether she fancied or not, Ori _knew_ there was absolutely no way Thorin could ever reciprocate any interest she might had - not unless she had _majorly_ mistaken the way he had acted around Bilbo.

And Thorin was her King, as well.

She lifted her head from the nest of her arms, leaning it on the wood of the door and looking at the white ceiling of her bedroom while she fought the urge to bang her head in frustration.

Everything kept spinning, albeit lightly, but her mind was thankfully becoming clearer by the minute. And the sinking realisation of just _what_ she had done was growing within her.

She had kissed Thorin.

And if that hadn't been bad enough, she had _run away._ It was cowardice at its lowest and Ori couldn't help felling a knot in her stomach.

She could still remedy to that. She could walk back down the stairs and face Thorin. It would be the right thing to do. To apologise, hoping he would not begrudge her having indulged in wine so much she had lost control of her actions...

Whom was she lying to?

She glared at the ceiling. She had been tipsy before in his presence, yet she had never had the cheek to even _think_ of kissing him. Her stomach constricted at the sudden reminder of his lips, soft with just the tickle of beard and her heart made a somersault again.

Oh. Oh dear.

Her eyed widened as realisation hit her and she shook her head before letting it fall down on her arms again. Oh no.

  
  


Thorin flicked the switch on and the neon light flickered to life. All was silent around him as he strode in the basement. It was barely five in the morning and he had woken up before the alarm had gone off – like he did every morning – in spite of the restless night he had had. He had barely slept, what with his mind running in circles and replaying over and over the events of the night before.

_When Ori had kissed him._

His heart leaped in his chest and his breath caught in his throat, but he shook his head, banishing the thought. He began doing his warm-ups.

He needed to distract his mind and there was nothing better than physical exertion to do so. It was what had allowed him to keep his precarious balance throughout all these years. The years he had spent in the Army – like the years he had spent labouring as a smith in his past life, or training with his sword and axe - had taught him the value of exhaustion, and he had never been as grateful for that lesson as in the past year. Two lifetimes' worth of burdens had descended on him ever since the fateful encounter with Ori.

His breath hitched.

Ori who had thrown his life upside down just by her mere presence. With her smiles and fidgeting, with her humour and her freckles, with her knit scarves and books, with her armour of shyness and unshakable determination, with her coppery blond hair tucked behind her ear and her big brown eyes. With everything that made her Ori.

He stopped in his motions, gazing wistfully at the pale yellow wall of the basement.

Ori who had kissed him.

Thorin shook his head. He still couldn't believe it had happened. It had been... it had been _indescribable_. For the briefest moment - barely a heartbeat - his brain had shut down and the whole universe had narrowed in the unexpected touch of her lips. No thought, no breath, no movement, nothing had mattered but the evanescent warmth of her kiss. The world had stopped spinning.

And then, as abruptly as it had started, her lips had vanished leaving a void in their wake.

It had taken a moment for Thorin's brain to put into gear and realise what was happening. And when it had, all he had been able to see had been the back of her rapidly retreating form while her mortified face hovered in his mind's eye, burning to cold ashes the feeblest hope that may had reared its head at the sudden touch of her lips.

Huffing a heavy breath and ignoring the vice around his stomach pulling tight Thorin shook his head and moved to the corner of the room where the punching bag hung from the ceiling. He scowled at the gnashing disappointment that was cutting sharply through the memory of the briefest moment of bliss beyond any he could have pictured. Bitter-sweet bliss.

Thorin punched the heavy bag, feeling the vibration of the hit reverberate through his arm.

Why had she kissed him in the first place? Had it meant anything? He hit it again and again, with more strength. Was there hope? _Any_ hope? He landed a right cross on the bag. Or had she just acted thoughtlessly, _drunkenly_ , only to realise what she had done and thus fleeing with that mortified look on her face? A hook, then a jab in rapid succession. The bag shook with each impact. And if there in fact was a hope, would he be willing to risk their friendship for it?

Thorin found himself missing Dwalin while he landed punch after punch on the heavy bag. Nothing would have helped him like a harsh sparring session with his old friend to free him from the incessant thoughts that had coursed through his mind for most of the night, tormenting him.

He was certain the younger dwarf would have tried his best to beat him senseless, charging with his teeth bared and his axes tightly gripped in his tattooed hands. He had done so many times in the past and Thorin had been more then grateful for it. The ruthlessness of sparring with Dwalin had always made something loosen inside Thorin and all his frustrations would pour liked molten metal, blow after blow.

He hit the bag again. And again.

Thorin missed his old friend, missed the relative simplicity of those days. Of the time before he had become his own nemesis. Before his mind had rebelled against him.

And now his heart.

He landed a series of particularly harsh hook punches on the heavy bag and his bare knuckles protested. They would bruise, but he didn't care.

She had _kissed_ him.

How could he uproot this attraction, infatuation, _whatever_ it was she inspired in him when all he could think was the way it had felt to have her lips pressed on his? _When he wanted more._

But she had not. She had recoiled.

Thorin hit the bag once again. His mind was stuck in a loop and he snarled at it all, hitting the heavy bag viciously, again and again, punch after bruising punch until nothing but the dull thud of his knuckles on the bag filled his head.

  
  


Ori awoke with a pounding headache and she groaned into her pillow, trying to ignore the incessant blaring of her alarm clock. She pulled the covers over her head, but the alarm persisted. Groaning again she extended her arm towards the bedside table, blindly grasping for the obnoxious device.

A very tired and cranky part of her knew she should be getting out of bed and readying for uni, but her body felt leaden and she couldn't find it within her to move, let alone walk down the stairs and fix breakfast for herself and Thorin.

_Thorin._

She snapped her eyes open, wincing at the pale grey light that filtered through the window.

Oh dear.

Images of the previous night pierced through the hungover fuzziness of her consciousness and Ori felt something clutch at the insides of her stomach. Oh Mahal. She... she had... She had _kissed_ Thorin.

And it had been wonderful.

Her breath stopped somewhere above her racing heart at the memory of Thorin's lips. In that moment she had wanted so badly to lean closer and close the distance between them, feel his arms around her. She had wanted it all and more, and for the moment never to end. Never.

But he had frozen and Thorin's lack of reaction had made her snap out from her daze.

Mahal be merciful, how was she ever going to face him? She buried her head in her pillow shaking it. What would he _think_? What _was_ he thinking? She felt her stomach painfully constrict. Would he be angry? Annoyed? _Pitying_?

As her temples throbbed from the wine she had indulged the night before, Ori found that she didn't want to know. No, she didn't. Not on this particular morning at least. She didn't.

Ori squeezed her eyes shut. Her head felt like horde of trolls was tramping over it and her throat was dry, but whether it was from her hangover or from the dread at the prospect of facing Thorin and seeing the rejection she hadn't even realised she had dreaded until last night, she couldn't tell.

It would be better if she slept her hangover away before she dealt with... well, the _mess_ she had done – the reality of the situation, her mind supplied. She nodded in her pillow, it was a sensible decision. And if a part of her was looking at her in her mind's eye with Dori's disapproving face, telling her she was being a coward, Ori pretended it wasn't there.

The voice insisted, telling her she would miss a whole day of lessons if she did not get out of bed immediately and the clutching in her stomach grew worse and it was guilt, but her hands pulled the covers snug.

She would deal with it all later.

_Possibly never._

  
  


His computer buzzed in the silence of his study and Thorin gazed intently at the screen of his computer, forehead pinched in a frown of concentration, while his fingers typed rapidly. Balin had written to him – to them, in truth, Ori's address was stated alongside his as one of the recipients – inquiring on their well-being and telling them, after the general pleasantries, that he was planning to come to London the following week to do another lecture.

Apparently his old friend and advisor wasn't coming to London alone this time. Thorin assumed he was going to bring his wife with him and he was composing a reply. He was actually curious to meet the former dwarrowdam who had caught Balin's attention - the name didn't ring any bell, but perhaps he had known her. Balin hadn't told them much about Dóta – or Gretchen as her name went now - but the soft glint in the older man's brown eyes had been a new one and it made Thorin happy to know his friend had managed to find a measure of joy in this life. Durin knew his past life hadn't been easy. The exile had robbed him of all but his brother.

Thorin shook his head. It wasn't a train of thought he was eager to follow, as it mingled with his own grief, with memories he could not bear recalling. Not unless he wished to add the dark tang of panic to his already unpleasant array of days.

Balin's arrival was, all things considered, good news – the first in days - and he had no doubt Ori was going to be delighted to have him back so soon - if Ori was going to be around for the occasion, that was.

He felt his mouth curl into a scowl while at the same time something constricted sharply deep with him.

She had been avoiding him since his birthday and Thorin was torn between disappointment and irritation. He had barely seen her in the past three days. And while he knew she was busy with her studies it was fairly obvious she was trying to spend as little time in his company as possible whilst still living in the same house.

They hadn't talked, hadn't even been in the same room since Tuesday. The only communication on her part had consisted of her bright orange post-it notes stuck on the occasional plastic container in the fridge that would read “Put into microwave” or “Heat in saucepan” and he had barely caught glimpses of her as she sped up the stairs, books clutched to her chest, and into her bedroom where she had spent most of the past days.

It was intolerable and Thorin's mood had been tethering between snarling and scowling to the degree Roberts – who had gotten back to work yesterday – had spent the past day quivering in his presence and stuttering barely intelligible sentences.

And yet he hadn't been able to find it within him to demand her attention, not when he had done the same only a few days prior. He would be a hypocrite to blame her for avoiding him.

He grimaced, shaking his head while he took a look at the e-mail he had composed – brief as usual and most likely too terse for most people, but he cared little for empty pleasantries, especially in the present mood. After correcting an error he reread the thing before he clicked on the “send” icon, stopping himself before he forwarded the e-mail to Ori. It would be the closest thing to proper communication with her in days, he thought with a grim set to his lips.

Thorin couldn't let this situation go on in this fashion. There had to be something he could do. He _wanted_ her around – _needed_ her. Her presence, her smiles, all of her. It went above any attraction, any infatuation, any... _anything._ She was his friend, his closest friend, the most treasured person in his current life. But she avoided him and Thorin knew deep within him it was because of what had transpired on his birthday. And if his scowl deepened to something almost painful, he didn't care. He could not let anything undermine their friendship.

Not even a kiss that had made him think of little else for the past three days, alternating between blissful hoping and maudlin resignation in his newly found solitude, asking himself over and over the same questions that had made him spend a nearly sleepless night in the aftermath of his birthday. A kiss that had shaken all of his painstakingly reached resolutions and made him wonder about things he should not wonder about. That had made him want _more._ More of her, more warmth, more soft lips, more _everything_.

And while a part of him had treasured the tiny wisp of hope that it may yet be possible – albeit improbable - the rational part of him was worried at the crumbling of their friendship and that worry had grown louder as the days trickled by.

He shut his computer down. While his screen flicked through various phases that preceded blackness, he huffed a sigh and lifted himself from his chair with determination. This nonsense would end now. Balin had given him a reason to break the silence that had grown around them like rust – he had to tell Ori about Balin's visit - and Thorin was not going to waste his chance.

Her _presence_ in his life was too important. She was too important.

He made his way out of the study quickly, switching off the light as he stepped out of the room. In a few strides through the grey-carpeted hallway he was before Ori's bedroom door.

He knocked.

  
  


Ori nearly jumped from her bed when the loud knock resounded in the silence of her room.

She was sitting on her bed, leaning on the headboard with a thick book of Latin texts that needed translating while her mind wasn't in it - finding the oddest and windiest paths through declensions and conjugations of Latin words but nonetheless always returning to the recollection of Thorin and the kiss she had stolen.

Nori would have been proud of her, she thought wryly, and she pushed away the underlying layer of sadness at the thought. She sighed, looking at her bedroom's door and bit her lip.

It had been days since Thorin's birthday and Ori knew she had been delaying the inevitable, but her procrastination had gained momentum as it had sped down the slope of her life and she hadn't been able to find it within her to face him. It was craven, but with each day it had become harder and harder. If she didn't see the pity of rejection in his eyes she could still pretend it had never happened.

He knocked again and there was impatience in it. She bit her bottom lip harder. It seemed her procrastination had come to a halting end, after all – she though, before swallowing and saying

“It's open.”

She carefully placed a bookmark between the pages of her book before she closed it, while her teeth worried her lip raw. The doorknob turned and Ori braced herself for the inevitable, utterly awkward, discussion as Thorin stepped inside her room, stopping by the door. He gave her a long blue-eyed look and she waited with bated breath.

“Balin wrote” he said suddenly, without ceremony and Ori felt her eyebrows shoot upwards.

“Balin?” she asked with a frown.

“He's coming to London next week.” he told her in lieu of an answer, then he added “He told me he won't be coming alone.”

“His wife?” she inquired, feeling jittery. Any moment this conversation would veer to _that_ topic, she knew. It was only a matter of time.

“He didn't state as much, but I believe so.” he replied and failed to add anything.

The conversation, instead of finding its treacherous way to the one topic she was cravenly loath to discuss, vanished into a thick and awkward silence and Ori looked at him from underneath her fringe.

Thorin stood there by the door, the top button of his shirt unbuttoned and the sleeves rolled up above his elbows revealing his strong forearms. He was looking back at her with an unreadable expression. She bit her lip harder, wishing she had one of her scarves to bury her face in it and disappear along with the blush she could feel on her cheeks, but at the same time she couldn't tear her eyes away from him.

She had barely seen him in days – it hardly mattered that it had been her own choice to do so – and she felt her face flush at the thought of their last encounter. She was embarrassed at having kissed him, but at the same time she couldn't wholeheartedly regret it. She couldn't. Especially not when he was standing a few feet away and staring at her from under his dark eyebrows with those incredibly blue eyes of his.

And his lips. Lips she had kissed. And it had been the briefest perfection. Her heartbeats were a thunderstorm in her chest and she swallowed, averting her eyes

She needed to get a grip of herself. It would do her no good to indulge in idle observations of someone who was not attainable by any mean. He had been a dwarf – had a dwarven soul – and their kin loved only once. And Ori had been there on the road to Erebor, had seen the way he had looked at their burglar, seen the regard he had held Bilbo in, the worry, the care.

No, it wasn't her he had given his heart to. And if her own heart broke a bit when she thought about it, it didn't matter. She looked at him, who was still staring back with no less intensity. Thorin was her friend. She may have made an utter _cock-up_ with the kiss, but she couldn't let it be the undoing of one of the most important things in her life. No, she couldn't.

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. Trying to keep her voice even she got up from her bed and asked

“Have you eaten already?”

Thorin raised both his eyebrows for a moment before shaking his head.

“No.” he told her in a flat voice that had an edge to it she could not recognise. She flashed him what she hoped was a smile, but feared it was more of a grimace.

“Me neither.” she told him, then asked “Let's go fix something?”

He nodded again and looking at her queerly he gave her a small smile that barely reached his troubled eyes.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Drop Your Guard” by Jasmine Thompson.


	16. On a bed of spider web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unexpected news and encounters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the second instalment in the series: [Mirror of my soul](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4171692/chapters/9417957)  
> It's a companion piece about Balin set years before Lonely souls. :)

 

The tread came off with a creak and Thorin put the wooden board down on the floor. He carefully took out the nails that had remained embedded in the wood, before he turned his attention to the riser of the squeaky stair he had been meaning to fix for months now.

He just hadn't been able to find the time. First he had been drowning in his workload, then there had been the accident and ever since Ori had officially moved to London he had somehow always ended doing something else – more often than not talking for hours upon hours about the most disparate subjects. And most of the time it hadn't been even deliberate, it just tended to happen.

Or at least it _had_ tended.

Thorin pulled out the last nail with more force than necessary and it nearly flew away. He felt a bitter mix of irritation and something too eerily akin to sadness to be ignored.

He missed her company.

He huffed, putting the pincers down. They _were_ back to interacting with one another, but it was as far away from how it had been before as Thorin was able to picture. He took the glue and began applying it on the riser and the stringer of the stair.

In a way it was his own fault. He had been the first one to avoid spending time with her, too scared to ruin their friendship with his... - it wasn't an “attraction”, nor an “infatuation”, none of those terms did it justice – _whatever_ it was. It hardly mattered how he dubbed it, the fact remained it had been him that had given the first strike to the balance their friendship had reached and then his birthday had happened – and Thorin was _not_ thinking about what had transpired, most definitely not – and _she_ had begun avoiding him.

He may had tried to salvage things, but Thorin knew it was too late.

The past two days had been proof enough. The longest and most excruciating weekend in a very long time – certainly since he had found Ori. Two days of stiff conversations and the awkward silences, almost like they had become strangers to one another all of a sudden. He hated it. He hated himself. Things would most likely never get back the way they had been and he couldn't accept it.

Thorin took the tread from the floor and placed it gingerly back in place, careful to leave no fissure between it and the riser above.

He couldn't give up.

There were things unsaid between them, things they _should_ talk about if they wished to salvage their friendship – but Thorin didn't want a friendship, did he? He silenced that inner voice while his heart hammered loudly somewhere between apprehension and anticipation. Perhaps it was that the reason why he had not yet breached the subject. His selfish desire for more, for being able to continue where Ori's flight had interrupted all. To be able to kiss Ori again and again and never to cease. To lose himself in it. In her.

But he couldn't, could he?

He leaned with his arm on the railing, looking at the flight of stairs with a grim set to his lips. There was something nameless and viciously strong roaring in his chest and he struggled to rein it in.

With a scowl he took his hammer from the toolbox and began nailing the tread to the supporting structure. He dreaded the inevitable discussion, the finality it would bring. He knew he was just delaying the inevitable. He took another nail and stroke it with the hammer. There was a familiar ease to the motion – even if it wasn't quite the same – that reminded him of other times, of different struggles. The memories that came forward, for once, were welcome, despite the pain they were laced with.

  


A dull and rhythmic thudding resounded in the background and Ori turned the pages of the battered Latin dictionary that was open in her lap. She was looking for an adjective she had not recognised at first glance, wondering at the poet's choice of using that particular formulation. It was arduous to translate these portions of the “Aeneid” and Ori flicked her hair behind her ear in frustration while she kept looking through the tiny lettering, using her finger to make sure her eyes wouldn't miss what she was searching for. She had never been overly fond of Latin as a language – it was too soft and different from the guttural languages she had spoken in the past - and that was not helpful. It was bad enough she had to translate Virgil, being miserable about it only made the task worse.

Although, Ori had no doubt it _would_ be much easier if she were able to fully concentrate on it instead of paying too much attention to the sounds coming from the hallway. If she could stop her mind form drifting to Thorin all the time.

She sighed, staring at the open books in her lap. It was almost unnerving how much he had been occupying her thoughts, especially in the past days. No matter what she did of how hard she tried to concentrate on her studies, Thorin was constantly on her mind. The memory of his rare smiles or his piercing blue eyes. Or the vivid image of the way he would run his fingers through his short dark hair when he was troubled. The echo of his voice and memory upon memory of times spent together doing the most disparate things.

Her heartbeats gained speed, threatening to burst through her chest and she sighed again. It was hopeless.

 _She_ was hopeless.

And her foolish _feelings_ were pulling their friendship apart. She could see it clearly, the wall building itself between the two of them, one brick at a time. And yet she couldn't help it. She couldn't stop her heart from fluttering inside her chest and her stomach from constricting every time he was close - she couldn't stop wanting to feel his lips against hers one more time _and never to let go._

Even if it broke her heart to know he was beyond her reach. Unattainable.

Her stomach clenched painfully and she shook her head with a determination she wasn't feeling, trying to push down the tide of melancholy. Ori couldn't keep tethering between these bitter-sweet extremes. She couldn't go on like this. She had duties to attend to, responsibilities she was slacking about, unable to dedicate herself fully to them. And it wasn't in her nature. Ori had never been the kind of person that moped about unrequited feelings. There were tasks to be done, verses to be translated, books to be read and she couldn't, she simply couldn't wallow in her misery, no matter how tempting it was. It had to stop.

And if it would begin with ignoring Thorin's currently loud presence in the adjacent room, so be it.

Blinking away the earthquake of emotions that had been shaking her from deep within, Ori took her laptop from the coffee table and turned it on, taking her earphones from atop the pile of papers they had been laid and put them on. Once she had logged in, Ori opened her music folder and went looking for a suitable playlist.

She needed something cheerful. Something to distract her from her thoughts.

Once she found a nice playlist of sixties songs, she put it on shuffle mode and pressed the play button. Only for her eyebrows to shoot up in wry surprise as the voice of Grace Slick began singing “Somebody To Love”. Ori nearly huffed in disbelief. Of all the songs... She shook her head.

As the song kept playing she decided to check on her e-mail like she often did. Opening her webmail client Ori noticed to her delight that there was one unread e-mail from Balin.

She grinned in anticipation, all her former heartache forgotten for the moment.

Ori was eagerly looking forward to seeing her erstwhile teacher again. Not to mention meeting his wife. Balin had barely mentioned her, so Ori's imagination had ran wild trying to imagine what kind of person the former dwarrowdam could be – and that had been one of the few conversations she had managed to hold with Thorin in the past two days, filled with an awkwardness that had reminded Ori of a time long past when he had been only her King, brave and majestic and Ori had been just a young lad too inexperienced to even know when to stop running.

She grimaced as the memory played itself once again. The strain of running, the growling of wargs and the sharp pull on Ori's coat. He had saved Ori's life that day, she hadn't forgotten. Nor had she forgotten the embarrassment of it all...

She shook her head - she had been thinking about him again, it had to stop - and opened the e-mail that had been addressed to both Thorin and her.

Her eyes raced down the text

“ _Dear Ori and Thorin,_

_I'm looking forward to seeing you again. My flight arrives at Heathrow on Friday morning, but my lecture (the same one you had already listened to) is to be held on the afternoon of the same day, and since I will be staying in London for the weekend I would suggest we meet on Saturday, if that is all right with you._

_On an entirely different note, I apologise for having been vague and inadvertently misleading you into thinking I will be coming to London with Gretchen (although she has expressed her desire to meet you as soon as it will be possible to arrange it)._

_My companion for this visit will be someone I hope you will be as delighted to see as I had been when I found him. He is known as Alberto Sartori now, but you will remember him better as Bilbo Baggins...”_

Ori's eyes were impossibly wide and she reread the e-mail to make sure she hadn't misunderstood. A second glance only confirmed that Balin was coming to London and he was bringing _Bilbo_ with him.

Bilbo was back. Their hobbit.

She could hardly believe it. Ori hadn't seen him since the day he had left Erebor to return to the Shire, and to know that he was back...

She needed to tell Thorin. He would be... he would be happy about it - her stomach clenched but she ignored it, like she ignored the tightness in her chest - of course he would. Ori got up from the armchair, gingerly laying the laptop atop the coffee table, feeling a fray of conflicting emotions clash one against the other within her.

Joy that Bilbo was back - he had been the best travel companion and one that enjoyed lore almost as much as Ori did – that mixed with curiosity at his rebirth which was uncanny in itself. He hadn't been a dwarf, it shouldn't have been possible and yet it had happened. And it made her feel an odd elation, because it meant that there was way more to her theories than she had thought.

Then there was the surprise at Balin's choice of withholding Bilbo from them.

But also a deeply cutting sadness and the sharp sting of jealousy. And Ori knew it was wrong. She knew she should be glad that Thorin might finally have his chance at happiness, but it seemed she was not as noble as she had believed. No, she was horribly selfish.

Because despite her fondness for the hobbit, a small part of her wished Bilbo hadn't come back.

  


Thorin was putting his tools back in the box when he heard the sound of Ori's footsteps approaching and he turned his head in her direction, still crouching. She was fidgeting with her hands again, tugging the hem of her grey cardigan almost violently.

There was a look in her eyes that made him frown. It was something he had not seen before. Something entirely unreadable - or perhaps too complex to discern – that he didn't like. And he couldn't shake off the feeling it didn't bode well.

“Balin is not coming with his wife.” she told him without any introduction and he blinked at her.

“No?” he inquired after a moment, his frown deepening “How come?”

He saw her hesitate a moment and bite her lip. Thorin watched her silently, trying not to notice how her teeth dug in her lip, tingeing it an angry red. He swallowed, doing his utmost to banish the train of thought that would inevitably crash into him. Releasing her bottom lip Ori looked at him from under her fringe.

“He is coming with Bilbo.” she told him shyly.

Her voice was barely audible and it took Thorin a moment to comprehend the meaning of her words.

Bilbo.

He blinked - twice - his brain processing the information.

Balin was coming with _Bilbo_.

Their burglar.

Who was alive, just like them. It couldn't be. He shook his head in disbelief.

And then the memories flooded him.

The guilt. The horror at his own actions. _Throw him from the rampart!_ The vivid recollection of the _rage_ he had felt when he had learned about Bilbo's betrayal – Bilbo's courage – and how thorough had been his desire to _kill_ him in that moment. _I will do it myself._ Thorin's hands shook and he forced himself to breathe.

“Thorin?” Ori's voice was like a distant beacon and he followed it, wading through the blackness that was edging closer and the blinding panic that beat fast, fast, faster in time with his heartbeats. Fast like the pounding of goblin feet, fast like the trickle of golden coins, fast like falling off the rampart – and if it hadn't been for the Wizard's intervention their burglar _would_ have crashed down on the stony slope of the Mountain. _I curse you._

“Are you alright?” there was worry in Ori voice and Thorin managed a nod, his eyes fixed on the grey carpet of the hallway. But he wasn't and he wouldn't be. _He had never been alright._ There was madness in him and it only lurked behind the corner of his memories. He knew. He remembered. _The hobbit had been light when he had lifted him above the precipice._

His breaths were impossibly difficult to take and the walls were closing in on him.

And he needed to get out of there, get _the hell out of there_ , before Ori witnessed it. Hadn't Ori seen too much already. Hadn't they all seen. The madness of their King... _Fingers clenched around the burglar's neck._

He had to get out of there.

“I'm fine.” he croaked, focusing on his breathing while his fingers closed around the crowbar he had been holding with a bruising grip. Breathe in. Breathe out. He forced his muscles to cooperate and he tremblingly managed to lift himself upright and take the toolbox in his other hand, pushing with all his strength the memories in a corner. _His nephew's voice screaming “No!”_

He needed to get away from her before they rallied and stormed his walls. Get somewhere safe. Somewhere alone.

And then break apart.

“I'll put these away.” he managed to tell Ori, struggling to keep his voice neutral, while his breaths came shallow. He didn't look at her as he forced his feet to move. They felt like a distant part of his body, but he was moving. Good. Breathe in. Breathe out. He had this under control. He had it under control. A few more steps.

_The look of horrified disbelief in the halfling's blue eyes._

Quickly, counting the seconds between the intakes and out-takes of air he managed to reach the basement and he wrenched the door open, stepping inside. Almost there.

“Thorin?” she called again, blatant worry in the higher pitch of her voice. But he ignored it, closing the door shut and sliding down to the floor with his head between his knees as the memories rammed their way into the forefront of his mind.

And he lay down his arms.

  


Saturday had come too soon. The better part of the second week of November had flown by for Ori in a rush of poorly delivered translations and equally poor conversation attempts with Thorin. As she sat in the passenger seat of Thorin's car, while they drove towards the restaurant where they had agreed to meet with Balin and Bilbo, she couldn't help thinking about the way Thorin had taken the news of their hobbit's rebirth. The pain and panic in his eyes, the way he had left her standing in the hallway while he all but barricaded himself in the basement. And hadn't emerged from it until late in the evening, pale and tired.

Her heart constricted painfully in her chest at the memory, just it had done upon seeing his battered appearance.

He hadn't taken it well. Thorin had moved around the house like a wraith in following days, dark eyebrows furrowed deep in thought and a permanent scowl plastered on his face. If it hadn't been for the anguish in his eyes it would have been too eerily reminiscent of the days they had spent under the Mountain. But that had been madness and this was pain.

Ori cast a glance to her right where Thorin was sitting, hands firmly gripping the steering wheel. She couldn't begin to imagine what he was going through - and a self-preserving part of her told her she shouldn't even try, it would only hurt her more. And yet, it was nearly unbearable to see him so distressed and not doing her utmost to distract him from his inner turmoil like she had always done in the past year. _Until recently._

But what could she tell him?

Even if their conversations weren't strained and almost alien now, Ori wouldn't have known what _could_ distract him from the contrite and miserable mood – from thinking, no doubt, about all the wrongs he had done to the one most important person for him.

Her chest felt tight and Ori closed her eyes, stopping herself before she began thinking about the unfairness of the situation and wallowed in self-pity.

It hurt, but it would pass - or at least she hoped. She hoped the somersaults her heart did each time Thorin _truly_ looked at her were the consequences of an innocuous infatuation – such as the one she had had for the boy she had dated back in Sixth Form - and not the harbingers of something else.

Because _that_ would be something she could not deal with. Not like this. Not without a glimmer of hope. And there was none.

  


Thorin pulled the car in the parking area of the restaurant and killed the engine. He heard the sound of Ori's seatbelt unbuckle, but he made no move to release the stirring wheel. He couldn't do it. Thorin couldn't walk inside that restaurant and face Bilbo – face his actions, his madness, his dishonour. He couldn't.

He had to. His fingers clutched the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip.

Thorin had wronged the hobbit. It was time he faced the consequences of his actions. His unforgivable actions.

He lifted his hands from the steering wheel and ran his fingers through his short hair. He _did_ remember the exchange with Bilbo, his own last words and the forgiveness the hobbit had given him, but he did not fool himself into thinking it had done anything to mend the irreparable tear he made in the friendship with the halfling – that he had chosen to come to London and see them was more than he deserved. And in truth he had very likely decided to do so only because of Ori. Thorin doubted Bilbo wanted anything to do with him. He had betrayed his friendship in the most violent way after all. He had tried to _kill_ him.

He felt Ori's eyes on him and he glanced in her direction. She was currently looking at him with the same strange expression she had worn on Sunday when she had broken the news to him about Bilbo's arrival. A look Thorin was not yet able to give a name and it only added to his unease.

In the past five days he had been single-mindedly focused on their burglar and the upcoming meeting. But Ori had been a constant ache in the back of his mind. Another thing he needed to fix. Another friendship he had ruined. Not so thoroughly as the one with Bilbo, he mused, but it was a small consolation.

A bitter one.

Something squeezed his heart bruisingly an he swallowed dryly, trying to stop himself from thinking about Ori. But it was difficult when she sat on the passenger seat of his car.

So close.

And yet an abyss had wedged itself between them.

He glanced back in her direction and realised she was waiting for him to get out of the car.

He took a deep breath and steeling himself, he unbuckled his own seatbelt and opened the car, grimly staring ahead. A moment later Ori followed him and he locked the car before striding in the direction of the restaurant. One disaster at a time. He couldn't deal with them all together.

He pushed the door open and stepped in. His eyes scanned the tables, looking for Balin's tell-tale greying hair, but his heartbeats were too loud in his ears and his breaths too shallow. Not now. He couldn't fall apart again...

A light touch on his arm made him snap his head in Ori's direction.

“There.” she said softly, her eyes brown fixed on a table in the far corner where his old friend and advisor sat chatting amiably with a short young man, a mop of unmistakable dark blond curls on his head.

Thorin forced his feet to move and schooled his expression. The erstwhile hobbit had his back turned to them, but Balin saw their approach and flashed them a fond smile, tapping him on his arm.

They were a few feet from their table when their former burglar began turning on his chair and Thorin felt like a man walking to the gallows. Ori was right beside him and despite the strain in their interactions and the thunderstorm of emotions she inspired, he felt a measure of comfort at having her by his side. He approached the table, readying himself for the inevitable hatred.

Balin and Bilbo stood up and the former hobbit's blond head turned in their direction, looking at Thorin.

And smiling happily.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Keep The Streets Empty For Me” by Fever Ray


	17. A storm, a beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silence and words.

 

Ori crossed the last few steps that separated her from the table where Balin and Bilbo had been sitting a moment prior. Thorin had stopped in his stride and she passed him, beaming brightly at her former teacher.

“Balin.” she greeted him and embraced the greying man fondly before she turned her attention to their former burglar “Master Bilbo.”

“Ori.” he replied smiling “It's a pleasure to meet you again.”

His blue eyes were lit up in fondness and in spite of the tangled knot that had been lodged in her throat since she had learned of his visit – and had grown tighter with each of Thorin's gloomy and desperate looks - Ori found herself mirroring his expression. A belated feeling of genuine joy at having him back cut warmly through the tension that had been building within her - through the resentment she knew she should have never felt in the first place – and she made to embrace him as well, but stopped just as she was reaching out, recalling how – unlike the dwarves - their hobbit had never been prone to physically express emotions.

So, stopping stiffly by Thorin's side she merely gazed at the former hobbit, barely taller than her and with a tangle of sandy blond curls atop his head. There was a distinct lack of pointy ears and he was actually wearing shoes, but in all except that Bilbo Baggins had hardly changed. Even the way he had dressed – a white button down shirt with a burgundy suit-jacket - seemed to echo his old self.

Ori could still clearly picture the attire he had worn throughout their journey across Middle Earth, all the way until they had reached Laketown and he had forfeited his red jacket for a hand-me-down blue coat.

It had been almost symbolic - she mused – how after changing their garbs in Laketown everything had gone inexorably downhill.

After they had left the past behind and blindly traipsed into the future.

She blinked, banishing the strangely morose thoughts just as Bilbo exclaimed

“Now, don't you just stand there.” there was that steely matter-of-factly attitude beneath his politeness that made Ori smile “Have a seat”

Bilbo gestured towards the table and Ori's gaze broke away from the former hobbit and she glanced in Thorin's direction. He was standing frozen, with a guarded expression in his eyes and Ori felt a deep set sadness clench painfully through the happiness of the moment. She chose not to acknowledge it – it would be unfair to burden this encounter with her own misfit feelings for Thorin – but could not ignore the unease she felt at seeing the pained bewilderment in his blue eyes.

She was nearly overcome by the need to banish all that troubled him, the need to make him smile, but it was not her place to do so. She looked back towards their erstwhile burglar who was wearing a light frown on his face.

It had never been.

Balin cleared his throat lightly and Ori snapped from her daze, moving to take a seat at the table in front of the older man. He was observing Thorin and Bilbo with keen eyes and Ori followed his gaze.

Thorin was still standing, making no motion to suggest he was going to sit down any time soon. And he hadn't spoken yet. His cornflower eyes were fastened on Bilbo and the blond man began fidgeting behind his back with his clasped hands. Hadn't she known Thorin as well as she did Ori could have mistaken his look for a glare.

And Bilbo likely had.

It was unfair – a selfish part of her which had been too vocal in the past ten days, protested. That Bilbo should be given what she craved for but couldn't tell the difference between the thousand shades of emotions Thorin's stony glare could convey. That she should despair over unrequited feelings she struggled to be in denial about, while he had had it all. And hadn't he betrayed Thorin's trust? Hadn't he given away the Arkenstone? The purpose had been noble, but the birthright of their kin...

Ori suddenly averted her eyes, shame at her own thoughts tasting bitter on her mouth. How could she even think those things? How could she even question Bilbo's worth?

What would Dori said at the sibling he had raised, twisted in her judgement by jealousy?

She observed the weaving of the tablecloth, tracing the pattern with her finger while she felt disgusted with herself.

The light scraping of a chair to her right drew her attention and Ori lifted her eyes. Only to briefly meet Thorin's burdened gaze and she quickly looked away.

A willowy waiter arrived a moment later, taking their orders and after he left with a long-legged stride, a thick, smothering silence descended on them and Ori almost physically ached for someone to break it.

“How was your flight?” she asked Balin, pushing back all the emotions that still raged within her - the jealousy, the bitterness and the unspoken emotion that made her heart leap when Thorin was nearby.

“Good, good.” Balin replied, acting as if nothing were amiss, but Ori saw him throw a look of concern in Thorin's direction before he added “A bit of turbulence above France, but other than that it was fine.”

“I'm glad.” she told him, attempting a smile “And your lecture?”

“Oh, it went perfectly.” he said “I'm honestly sorry for telling you not to bother coming. You would have found it quite enjoyable. It ended up with a rather heated debate on the finer points of Pythagoras' theories of the transmigration of souls.”

“Indeed?” she inquired, curiosity piqued.

“Indeed.” he replied before he proceeded to explain to Ori in detail the objections one of the professors from King's College had made on Balin's interpretation of metempsychosis.

“I think it was utter nonsense.” Bilbo joined the conversation once Balin had finished his exposition “They were clearly grasping at straws in the attempt of discrediting your theory, I'd say.”

“Some of their observations were sensible.” Balin retorted, cocking his eyebrow as he inclined his head slightly. Bilbo flashed him a brief smile before schooling his expression to his usual polite neutrality.

“Well, yes.” Bilbo replied beatifically “That is, of course, if we completely overlook the fact that we _have_ been reborn.”

The bespectacled professor huffed a chuckle but conceded the point and Ori felt herself relax slightly as the conversation continued in a light banter about professional competition between the various ethnology departments. Even though she could not ignore the silent brooding presence of Thorin to her right, Ori tried to focus her attention on Balin who was telling them various anecdotes from his lectures across Europe. She learned at one point that Bilbo had a degree in Foreign Languages and Literatures, and the only reason he had chosen not to get a doctorate was because of his father's frail health which required him to stay at home.

“So where exactly do you live?” she asked him, curious about it.

“Northern Italy” he replied “ I live in Grado.”

“I've never heard of it.” she admitted and Bilbo straightened his back with a disapproving expression.

“Now that is just, well, that is unacceptable.” he exclaimed in the same tone he had once used to try – and fail - stopping the Company from pillaging his pantry “It's a wonderful place, I'll have you know, but naturally Venice gets all the attention abroad.”

“Our lagoon is far more beautiful than the Venetian one.” he continued his rant, then huffing almost to himself. “Overrated that one is.”

“Bilbo feels very strongly about his home-town” Balin explained with a twinkle in his bespectacled eyes

“And with good reason.” he said, lifting a placative hand when he noticed Bilbo's politely riotous expression. “It is a very beautiful place. My family and I have been taking our holidays there for the past decade.”

The waiter chose that moment to return with their first courses and the conversation came to a lull while plates were being placed in front of them. Ori glanced to her right and saw Thorin eye the three of them silently and she realised he hadn't spoken at all, save from ordering his courses.

She frowned in worry, but decided to ignore it in favour of trying to distract him. So, reconnecting with where the conversation had been interrupted she asked

“You two met in Grado then?”

Balin gave her one of his trademark warm smiles, nodding.

  
  


Thorin had short hair.

Bilbo observed the erstwhile dwarven king. From his height and shoulder-breadth, to the straight edge of his nose and the haunted blue of his eyes, Thorin Oakenshield looked nearly the same as he once had, unchanged but for the lack of the wild mane of greying curls.

It was gone and somehow no matter how much he looked at him, Bilbo couldn't get used to it.

It was truly odd – he reflected while he chewed on a passable forkful of pasta – how he had been less surprised by Ori's distinctly feminine appearance than he had been by Thorin's haircut.

The latter was sitting in front of Bilbo with a stony expression on his face, his lips set in a thin line while he intently listened to Balin's explanation of the fateful holiday that had made Bilbo and Balin reacquaint with one another.

Bilbo had let the other man begin and carry on the tale, interjecting only when Balin missed a detail or two which Bilbo had deemed too important to skip. He contented with listening for the rest of the time, observing the three former dwarves.

Ori with her strawberry blond hair pulled in a haphazard ponytail and drowning in a large knitted vest that made her seem lither than she likely was. Balin, with his greying hair and bespectacled eyes, too intelligent and far more dangerous than any of the erstwhile dwarves for it. More dangerous than Thorin, who had been the picture of a warrior – and who was sitting in front of him barely touching his food.

It was strange to sit in an Italian restaurant in London, eating pasta _alla bolognese_ with the three of them. It was almost surreal, even after a decade of having Balin in this life – after a decade of knowing this was not his _first and only_ life.

Especially having Thorin and Ori there.

He hadn't seen them for so long, for longer than he hadn't seen Balin. Bilbo had last seen Ori the day he had left Erebor - after the Battle of the Five Armies - and Thorin...

Bilbo toyed with the fork in his half-eaten pasta.

He could still recall his last words, the paleness of his cheeks and the glassy look in his sky-blue eyes when life had fled his body. It had been one of the worst memories that got back to him – not _the_ worst, nothing could compare to the iron grip on his neck and the empty air under his feet while something frail had broken inside him, something he hadn't even known was there.

And now Thorin was here, sitting across the table with a brooding look and Bilbo couldn't help feeling it was all too strange, too overwhelming to comprehend.

But it wasn't just that, he mused while Balin began explaining the gradual way in which memories had returned to Bilbo. It wasn't just the strangeness of having Thorin - and Ori – there in front of him, nor the shorn hair. No, there was something different about the dwarven king that bothered him and piqued his interest at the same time. It was something in his eyes, in his expression. Something foreign that Bilbo had never seen before and that he couldn't quite put a finger on.

“Why hadn't you told us about Bilbo before?” Ori inquired, drawing Bilbo's attention.

Balin cast a brief look in his direction and he replied

“Because of me” Bilbo told her “Balin thought I wouldn't want to see you.”

Ori gave him a small lopsided smile and he replied in the same fashion.

“But you did?” Thorin's deep voice made him turn his head in his direction.

He was nearly startled at finally hearing him talk to them, but he covered it up with a nervous smile and answered cockily

“Well, I'd say that is quite obvious.”

Thorin was eyeing him with one of his piercing looks and Bilbo squirmed slightly under the gaze.

“Not to me.” he rebutted in his deep baritone, but did not elaborate further and another wave of uncomfortable silence followed.

Bilbo shuffled in his seat, taking a sip of wine – which was less passable than the food, but he had gotten used a long time ago to the notion that it was nearly impossible to eat properly abroad.

He caught Ori's eyes and – deciding to dissipate the tension that had been building with a change of subject – he asked her

“Balin tells me you are researching reincarnation as well?”

She looked at him shyly, saying

“Well, not exactly. I'm working on the history of Middle Earth.” then she added, with a fidgeting motion of her hands. “But, yes, I've thought about rebirth a lot.”

She gave him one of her timid smiles before she turned her attention to Balin

“Speaking of rebirth, how do you explain Bilbo's?” she inquired “I mean, he hadn't been a Dwarf in his past life, so does it make the Durin Theory incorrect?”

“No.” Balin replied “The Durin Theory is merely incomplete, lassie. It focuses on Dwarrows only, but as you know well Elves had been attested to be reborn as well.”

Ori nodded.

“Which mean there is no reason to believe Men or Hobbits could not be reborn too.” Balin said.

“Both those races are mortal, like ours...” Ori trailed, then she exclaimed with a shake of her head “I had been thinking too narrowly.”

Balin gave her a warm smile and then he launched himself in the explanation of the finer points of his theory on rebirth, to Ori's obvious delight.

Bilbo had heard many times already, but it was interesting to hear Ori's objections on some points that made the exposition soon grow into a proper debate.

And even more interesting – and curious – was to observe the interest with which Thorin followed the discussion, especially when it was Ori who spoke.

The way he looked at her, the strange kaleidoscope of emotions that blossomed in his eyes.

And made something long-buried stir within him in a silent moan of pain that made his chest constrict.

He knew the way Thorin looked at her. It was longing and sadness and something else, something delicate – something Bilbo was painfully familiar with.

  
  


The rain drizzled lightly through the fog and Thorin strode quickly towards the front door of the house, not bothering to take the umbrella from the car. Ori had pulled up the hood of her coat, eerily reminding him of that vicious storm, a lifetime ago, which had caught them while they had been crossing the Misty Mountains.

Ori had worn a grey hood, not unlike the one that was currently shielding her hair from the occasional droplet of rain that descended soundlessly.

Thorin fished out his keys from the pocket of his jacket and opened the door, letting her through before he entered the dark hallway. He switched the light on, dazedly taking off his jacket and hanging it on the coat-rack. He heard the shuffle of fabric as Ori did the same, unspeaking as she been since they had bid Balin and Bilbo goodbye and headed home.

Undoubtedly the oppressive silence of the car ride had been heavily accountable to Thorin's lack of conversation. He had barely spoken during the diner with their former companions, unable to do so – unable to control the whirlwind of emotions that had stormed within him, leaving nothing but numbness in their wake.

He had come to the restaurant expecting to be harshly faced with truth, expecting the Shireling he had once had the honour to call friend, serve him a well deserved punishment, dismiss him with the hatred he felt towards himself in the wake of his own actions.

Bilbo would have had every right to.

But he didn't.

And Thorin had been thrown off balance by the simplicity of a smile. A genuine, fond smile. As if nothing ill had ever happened. As if Thorin had never betrayed the friendship he had professed, the camaraderie that had managed to shyly grow between them despite all odds – despite Thorin's notorious difficulty at trusting anyone. It was impossible for Thorin to accept that it could be so easy, that his past wrongs would be just erased. Gone.

He had never dared hoping for any true forgiveness, but Bilbo's eyes had held no resentment towards him. Just worry and the shade of something he had been unable to identify, but which had seemed a familiar sight on the former hobbit's face.

Thorin heard the opening and closing of cupboards and he realised Ori had moved to the kitchen while he had been standing lost in thought under the coat-rack, one hand still clutching the sleeve of his slate-grey jacket. He released the fabric and took off his wet shoes.

A moment later he heard the faint rumble of the kettle and he walked down the grey-carpeted hallway, unsure of what he was doing, but feeling somewhere deep within him the stirring of a determination he had not felt in a while.

Perhaps it was the events of that evening, the surprising turn of the tide which - for once – had been in his favour, impossible as it may seem if he took in consideration the ill-fate that had followed him in both of his lives do far.

Or perhaps it was the fact that Ori was brewing a cup of tea - _just for herself -_ which made Thorin realise a heart-stopping truth.

He had worried in the past fortnight, tossing and turning in his bed at night, the fear of losing his friendship with Ori gnawing at his consciousness, filling his lungs with that breathlessness that was only a few steps away from panic. He had tried to make things better, he had tried to salvage the precious balance they had reached.

But it had all been for naught.

And his avoidance of that one conversation they _needed_ to have, despite his good intentions – and craven fear of rejection, a part of him supplied cruelly – had only made things worse.

The idea of facing Bilbo's hatred had been horrible, but the notion that Ori was slipping through his fingers, was endlessly worse. And that thought propelled his feet forward and through the kitchen doorway.

He found her standing by the counter, a mug of steaming tea in her hands while she looked blankly at the living room which was cast in shadows.

“Why did you kiss me?” he asked without preamble and she whipped her head around so fast her hair slipped out of the messy ponytail it had been pulled in.

She was looking at him with a mixture of panic and regret while her teeth found their way on her bottom lip.

“I...” she began stutteringly, her hands fidgeting with the mug of tea “I... well... I shouldn't have done that.”

Her voice was full of regret as she added, not looking at him

“I'm sorry.” and Thorin swallowed, feeling the storm that had raged within him grew fiercer and the stab of pain at her words was like the feet of a stone-giant ripping out of the mountain flank.

“You would take it back?” he asked, his voice surprisingly even while the earth shattered under his feet and he was falling down a chasm of his own making.

His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides while the self-preserving part of him urged him to flee. But he couldn't tear his eyes from her freckled face, from the look of conflicted sorrow in her brown eyes. Her teeth worried her lip so viciously he feared they would draw blood.

“I... that is...” she began and her hands trembled, nearly spilling her tea.

She put the mug down and leaned her hands on the counter, her back turned to him. Ori's shoulders were hunched and when she spoke Thorin barely heard her.

“No.” she said and the world halted “I know it was wrong...” 

He stopped for a breathless moment, her words registering in his mind. She was still speaking, but all his mind could focus on was that one syllable that made his heart thunder in his ears. No, she said, no. Everything he had bottled up in the past weeks exploded in his chest, all the wishing, all the regrets, all the worries, all the times he had replayed in his mind that brief touch of her lips, all the yearning for more. Thorin didn't even realise his feet were moving until he came to stand before her. 

And sneaked an arm around her waist, crashing his lips on hers.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last. ;)
> 
> Chapter title taken from “Waltz to Paris” by Aino Venna.


	18. And I'm falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saturday night and Sunday morning.

Thorin's lips descended on hers almost roughly in their urgency and for a split second Ori just stood frozen in bewilderment. Then, feeling a hesitant shift in his motions, almost as if he were about to pull away, her hands found their way to his shoulders, taking hold of them and she kissed him back, pressing her lips against his with a desperate need to seize the moment before it vanished.

He drew her close, closer and Ori felt the ground give away from under her feet as the kiss deepened, and she was suddenly falling freely, unable to think of anything save from the taste of his lips and the steely grip of his arm around her waist. It was perfection, a sweet all-encompassing breathlessness that engulfed her whole and Ori lost herself in the moment. The warmth of his body, so close she could feel the thundering of his heartbeats – frantic as her own – the softness of his lips, the light scraping of his beard on her skin.

A nameless emotion was singing triumphantly within her chest and for an endless moment there was just Thorin, kissing her. No thought, no dilemmas, guilt nor regrets. Nothing but him.

And then inevitably the kiss ended.

Thorin slowly lifted his head and looked at her, truly properly _looked_ at her like he hadn't done in weeks. His blue eyes bright and wide in something akin to awe, but must have been disbelief. Because suddenly reality came crashing back and Ori realised what had just happened.

And how impossible it was – even if Thorin's arm was still on her waist, holding her close to him. How _utterly_ impossible it was, no matter what she may had wished for.

She pulled back, shaking her head while her eyebrows furrowed and Thorin slackened his grip in spite of every instinct within him telling him not to, urging him to keep her as close as he could.

It had been incomparable, the brief eternity she had melted in his arms and he could have spent the rest of his days standing there in the middle of the kitchen kissing her and holding her form in his arms.

But she was frowning, moving away from him and that square foot of kitchen tiles that separated them could have been a mile. When she suddenly spoke there a was a strange edge in her voice that made him frown.

“What... what about Bilbo?” she asked and Thorin blinked in confusion.

“Bilbo?” he parroted, trying to understand her question but of all the thousand thoughts that coursed through his mind like a volley of arrows, none gave a clue to the meaning of her words.

“What about him?” he asked slowly and she fidgeted with her hands before she stepped towards the kitchen counter and grabbed her forgotten mug of tea, clutching it with a white-knuckled grip.

She was a bundle of nerves and Thorin was no longer merely curious, he wanted, _demanded_ to know what had Bilbo to do with their current predicament and _why_ was Ori looking at the no longer steaming mug of tea in her hands with such anguish.

What could it possibly be?

Ori was opening and closing her mouth, no doubt looking for the right words and Thorin resisted the urge to tell her to simply speak. He didn't care about form, he only wished – needed – to understand, because his own mind was able to supply any explanation. Unless... No. It would make no sense.

It _made_ no sense and he dismissed the idea just as it appeared. But the jagged discomfort remained and Thorin was glad when Ori's stuttering voice timidly broke the silence

“You... well... him” she began, then sighing heavily, she met his gaze and said “He... he holds your heart, doesn't he?”

Thorin stopped in his mental tracks, dumbfounded by her question. His heart? Bilbo? The absurdity of it was unfathomable, but what his mind registered was the relief of having no reason to feel the sharp bite of something akin to jealousy his own thoughts had conjured.

Relief and confusion - because Thorin could not, for the life of him understand what ever could have given Ori such an idea.

He stared blankly at her – silent – and Ori felt a chill travel up her lungs, squeezing her stomach in a vice-like grip. Her bottom lip was sore when she bit it and it only added to her dismay and confusion. He had kissed her. _He_ had kissed her and for the briefest moment she had dared hoping... She shook her head, feeling a stray lock fall over her fringe, but she didn't care. It was all too overwhelming and she wanted it gone. She wanted to lock herself inside her room and lose herself inside a good book, leaving all the absurdity of emotions outside the confine of the pages.

The absurdity of Thorin and his antics, and the sudden silence that was choking because it was heavy with failed hopes and the knowledge there was no return from where they where they were now.

Because tonight, after knowing how it felt to be in his arms, Ori could never again be his friend. No, not his friend.

“Why would you think that?” he asked her suddenly and she lifted her gaze, looking at him in bewilderment for a second, not understanding his question, before her mind put into gear again and she realised he was asking her about Bilbo.

And she frowned.

Why would it matter? Why did he care about the reason she thought that? Of all the things he could have asked...

She was wearing the oddest expression of confusion and there was a flicker of annoyance in it, which made Thorin reformulate his question.

“What I meant to ask was what had given you such a preposterous idea.” he said and her face showed an array of conflicting emotions that ranged from surprise to a wide-eyed look of hope which made Thorin's heart beat faster in his chest.

“The way you acted around him...” she began, trailing off with a frown and a shake of her head.

The way he had acted around Bilbo?

He frowned once again. How had he acted in regard of their burglar?

Other that flinging their hard-earned friendship over the ramparts of Erebor – the same way he would have flung Bilbo himself had the Wizard failed to intervene, and Thorin's lungs constricted ever so tightly at the thought – he had never treated Bilbo much differently that he had any of the other members of the Company.

Hadn't he?

It made no sense whatsoever for Ori to have thought him... No, it made absolutely no sense.

Then, unbidden came the memory of the _mithril_ shirt, which Thorin had given to Bilbo the day before the battle. And there, with the deep shame he felt for having suspected his kin of treason – the same dwarves who had followed him across Middle Earth out of loyalty alone – was mingled the eerie realisation of how his gift may have been interpreted by Ori – or anyone else for that part.

He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing through his nose.

The second most precious item in the treasury and Thorin had given it to the halfling. Made _a show_ of doing so.

In the haze of his addled mind it had been meant as a token of friendship, a sign of gratitude for hobbit's unwavering loyalty – for being above suspicion and how wrong had he been on that account, but it was water under the bridge, Bilbo had forgiven him for his actions and Thorin should not feel the sting of betrayal when he thought about the Arkenstone, he should be grateful for his courage and he was, but... He shook his head, blinking away the train of thought.

Now was not the moment. It was not.

Not when Ori was standing there, staring at him as though he would disappear any moment.

But where would he go? There was nowhere in the world he would rather be, no one he would rather hold in his arms then her – no one had ever felt so _right_ in his arms.

No, he corrected himself, there was somewhere he wished to be and his own feet begun moving, closing the distance between them.

Thorin's hand reached for the mug she was holding to and she relinquished it without thought.

“Preposterous?” she asked, because she _needed_ to know for sure, she needed to hear it confirmed so her heart could stop lingering on the edge of bursting.

“Yes, preposterous.” he said and she faintly registered the dull thud of the mug being deposited on the kitchen counter, but all her mind could focus was the way his blue eyes bore into hers while his calloused hand took hold of her own.

“So, does this mean...” she began, but her voice wavered as the words escaped her, but he bore his eyes into hers and said

“Yes.”

Then he leaned forward capturing her lips in a slow kiss that spoke more than the broken conversation they had just had and Ori's eyes fluttered closed.

  
  


Her eyelids lifted slowly and she squinted at the light that assaulted her pupils, dropping them again to lean into her pillow.

Only to snap her eyes open as she realised she was not lying in her bed.

No, she could definitely discern the dove grey fabric of a shirt and the solid bulk underneath it, heartbeats beating strongly and her own heart leapt to her throat.

She lifted her head slightly, gazing at Thorin's sleeping face with a flutter in her stomach. The faint sunlight that filtered through the bay window fell over his forehead, where the usual lines of worry were blessedly distended for once and Thorin looked almost vulnerable, laying there, asleep on the sofa without the armour of his sneers and cocked eyebrows, brooding looks and default grimness. He looked at peace and Ori treasured the sight, memorising every detail, from the darkness of his lashes to the crowfeet nearby and the first lonely streaks of silver scattered through his short cropped hair.

She observed him not quite believing she _was_ there, in the middle of the living room, still wearing yesterday's clothes and lying half-curled, half-draped over Thorin.

Thorin who had kissed her. Who was _not_ in love with Bilbo and had kissed _her._

Her heart begun to pound in her chest as the memories of the past evening came to the forefront of her mind. Memories of his lips – and her eyes trailed down the sharp angle of his nose to look at his mouth, remembering how it had felt against her own lips. How they had kissed, slowly stretching time until there had been nothing but the two of them drowning in one another. And when they had drawn apart there had been no words to be spoken, just the certainty that the moment should not be broken.

It had been surreal and incredible and they had clung to each other, reluctant to let go. Somehow, eventually they had ended on the sofa and tiredness had claimed her, making her eyelids too heavy to remain open, but he had been holding her fast and nothing in the world could have made her leave.

And she hadn't.

She felt a disbelieving grin begin to curve her lips and a jolt of happiness indomitably began to expand within her chest as the realisation of what it all meant began to set.

It was beyond anything she could have dreamed of. It was... It was Thorin and her and everything falling into place, as if it had been always meant to be so, as if she had been always meant to wake up with her legs tangled with his and the solid weight of his arm over her waist, holding her into place even in his sleep.

She lay there for the longest time, just taking in the sight, until the elbow she had been propped on began to ache and the fact she had slept in her woollen vest and jeans began to make itself known. And the faint pounding of a headache reminded her she had not yet drunk her customary morning tea.

Ori sighed, unwilling to move from the bliss of Thorin's warm body – unwilling to break the spell. But he was not going anywhere. He _wanted_ her in his arms. This would not disappear.

It couldn't. No, she reassured herself, it wouldn't.

With one last look at his slumbering form Ori slowly began to untangle herself from where she was laying on the sofa, trying in earnest to not wake him. There was a little frown on his brow when she lifted his arm to slide off from him, but he remained fast asleep.

  
  


Thorin woke up with a stiff neck and the first coherent thought his mind conjured was that Ori was not there. He jolted upright, nearly groaning as his back protested from having slept all night on the sofa. For a short panicked moment he was disoriented before his mind registered the faint sound of the shower running in the bathroom above. One glance around the bright living room made Thorin realise he had overslept for the first time in over a decade and the notion was befuddling.

He got up from the sofa and dazedly made his way towards the kitchen, tugging at the collar of his button-down shirt. He grabbed the kettle and filled it with water. His eyes fell on the floral-patterned mug Ori had put in the sink the night before and his heart leapt at the memory.

Thorin could scarcely believe it, but the mug of erstwhile chamomile stood there, unwashed. Real. Like Ori's words and lips had been real. And she had looked at him with those big brown eyes of hers and Thorin had felt like an utter fool for having delayed that conversation, for having been too cowardly to ask the one question that had led him to stand in the middle of his kitchen on a late Sunday morning wearing the same outfit he had worn at the dinner with Balin and Bilbo, and remembering with perfect clarity how lithe and warm had her body been when she had fallen asleep curled over his breathless chest.

But it had been a a welcome tightness in his chest and Thorin had cherished every moment of it, every soft breath of hers that caressed his skin while his grip had tightened ever so gently, unwilling to risk waking her up. He had watched her in the darkness of the living room, the street-lights' tired glow barely making illuminating them while his mind had tried to rationalise all that had happened. That it _had_ actually happened.

And slowly he had drifted into slumber.

In the silence of the house, broken only by the faint buzzing of the fridge and the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall, the sound of a door closing on the floor above reverberated loudly, snapping Thorin from his thoughts and he turned the almost forgotten kettle on.

He could feel the frantic pace of his own heartbeats while he opened and closed the cupboards. It was with almost light-headed anticipation that he listened to her footsteps, muffled by the carpet in the hallway.

Yesterday night could have very well been a dream – it was on the verge of incredible for him to think about all that had come to pass in the hours that had separated Thorin from the moment he had exited his car in the car park of the restaurant where they had met with Balin and reacquainted with Bilbo, and the moment he had descended in to sleep, feeling the rise and fall of Ori's chest pressed tight against his.

But this was reality and when she appeared in the kitchen doorway, wet hair sticking in every direction and a shy tentative smile on her lips, he just stared.

“Hi.” she said, feeling suddenly apprehensive.

Thorin was looking at her with a tinge of disbelief in his blue eyes. He looked so different from his usual composed self, his button-down all crumpled and half untucked from the waistband of his equally wrinkled dark slacks. He seemed dishevelled and the knowledge that it had been her doing in a way, made her heart skip a beat.

The kettle began boiling and the loud click of the appliance switching off automatically seemed to shake him out of his reverie.

“Good morning.” he told her in his usual deep voice, slightly hoarse from the remnants of sleep.

Ori saw the nearly imperceptible hesitation in his posture, in his eyes. And it emboldened her. She stepped forward and her hand rose tentatively to his cheek, pressing her lips against his in a quick but meaningful kiss.

When they drew apart, with his hand resting on her arm almost gingerly he was eyeing her with the same look he had worn the night before after sweeping her off her feet with his kiss. A look that matched the cautious smile that was curving his lips.

She smiled back, but she wanted to speak, to talk to him like they had always done since that evening in Cardiff over a year ago, wanted to erase the fortnight of silences and avoidance which had been only briefly broken by his birthday – and how she regretted having run away, had she only known... - and reach that balance between wryness and silences, heartfelt recollections and small-talk, dry humour and unspoken words. She wanted the hours spent amiably ignoring one another, Thorin's rather vocal intolerance for most things to be found on the telly, the rare boyish grins when he talked about something light – which usually involved Dwalin but sometimes it was Balin – and the beautiful sound of his laughter.

Ori wanted it all back, but she was treading on something frail, a beginning. Each word, each action was important and so she did not talk, trying to convey it all with a curve of her lips.

A beginning.

It was almost surreal – she mused while she silently moved towards the counter to pour the boiling water over the teabags before it cooled– when only yesterday she had been quietly despairing over her feelings, over the outcome of the dinner with Balin and Bilbo.

Ori had never been so happy in both her lives to be proven wrong in her assumptions as she had when Thorin had told Ori her notions about his feelings for Bilbo were preposterous. When she thought she had tortured herself over it for days, when she could have been there, watching with the corner of the eye Thorin fixing them breakfast, casting every now and then a glance in her direction when he thought she wasn't looking.

She shook her head, feeling the damp lock stick to her cheek and she flicked it away to no avail. Ori saw him stifle a chuckle and the familiarity of it was reassuring in the strangeness of it all.

Because beyond the bubble of happiness in which she floated, feeling her heart jig lively in her chest, there were many layers of unknown which were hard to ignore – many layers that now stood between what had been and what could be. It was the uncharted land on the map and Ori was afraid of losing her way, of losing it all, but at the same time she knew – the same way she had known when she had decided to join the Quest – the journey would be worthwhile.

For good or for ill.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Sunday Morning” by The Velvet Underground.


	19. Breathe deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inner monologues and that one conversation.

The sky was grey outside the cafeteria's windows and Ori gazed at the thick curtain of clouds while the chatter of the multitude of students having their lunch faded into a lively buzz. She turned her attention back to the ongoing banter between Lucy and Nicole. The fellow history students were currently discussing the upsides and downsides of medieval attire in harsh weather and Ori refrained from joining the conversation in spite of having a far more accurate understanding of what it meant to wear custom made clothes woven in rough thread, oilskins for the rain or any number of items which had seemed good and effective in their purpose in Ori's past life, but after having discovered the wonders of modern clothing, left a lot to be desired.

The two girls had been caught up into that particular lively discussion on their way to the cafeteria and they were still at it. It would have seemed to Ori like an argument, judging by the heated tones they were using but she had spent nearly all of her past life witnessing the fights between Dori and Nori. They had had the habit to disagree on just everything - except the fact that they both loved each other and Ori – so she merely shook her head at the girls' antics. After spending many lunch-breaks with them she had learned the dark-skinned history student and her blond bespectacled counterpart had been friends since sixth form – which explained the unrestrained comments they sometimes had about one another. She had also learned they were sharing an apartment with two more people – and Ori couldn't help feeling sympathetic towards whomever shared a home with that duo. Not that she didn't like them, quite the contrary in fact. They were the closest things Ori had had to friends since she had moved to London, with the exception of Thorin.

Thorin. Her breath hitched. That was an entirely different matter – Ori mused while she toyed with the peas on her plate. Thinking about him filled her with a peculiar sense of elated disbelief. Especially when she thought about how surreal the past four days had been.

Four completely strange days in which Ori had floated through her daily motions, every now and then reminding herself of the events that had transpired during the weekend – the kisses and looks, falling asleep in each other's arms – only to add new memories to the one she still had. Like the one of being at loss when Sunday night had come.

Ori's heart skipped a beat when she remembered the awkward standstill they had reached in the middle of the hallway that night. They had both been tired and the hour had been very late – too late considering they both had had to wake up early next morning – but her reluctance to go on their separate ways had been mirrored in Thorin's blue eyes. The idea of going to sleep, of being so close to one another yet having a brick wall between them had felt wrong after knowing how Thorin's arms felt when they kept her close, how it felt to hear the sound of his heartbeats so close to her own.

It had been barely, a night, spent sleeping on the couch wearing the same clothes they had worn that evening during the dinner with their friends and former companions, and yet on Sunday night it had been terrible to imagine the vast emptiness of the cold sheets that awaited her in her bed. And so they had lingered, Ori almost falling asleep on her feet. They hadn't even kissed, they had just held each other, taking in the sight of one another and Ori had drowned in the azure of his eyes, in the shivers that had run up her spine at his proximity. When at last he had spoken, instead of the dreaded “Good night.” she had not wanted to hear despite her body begging for sleep. It had been a quiet

“Will you stay?” and Ori had nodded with a sleepy smile, following him into the one room of the house she had never stepped inside before.

And they had slept.

Ori took a sip of her juice, feeling her mouth suddenly dry while her stomach fluttered. That night she had fallen asleep the moment her head had hit the pillow and when the morning after she had woken up to an unfamiliar ceiling, the bed had been empty. She recalled with perfect clarity the moment of sheer dismay before she had remembered Thorin had always been an early riser and Sunday morning might had very well been the first time Ori had been up before him.

She downed the content of the plastic glass and placed it back on the bright turquoise tray. _That_ night she had slept peacefully.

When the next night came about they hadn't even taken in consideration the idea of sleeping separately, but unlike the two nights before there had been no easy descent into slumber. Laying under the covers of his bed Ori had been too aware of Thorin's presence, of the warm bulk of his body, so close to hers - and if the frantic pace of his heartbeats had been any indication, so had he.

It had been almost excruciating to be there, kissing, holding one another while their hands tentatively explored, but cautiously, neither of them daring yet to cross that one line which Ori had no doubt had been on his mind the same way it had been on hers. But everything had been – still was – too fresh, to delicate. Too surreal.

“Hey! Earth to Platt.” Lucy's shrill voice violently dragged her from her thoughts and Ori felt a sudden blush creep on her cheeks.

“S...sorry.” she stuttered, her hand flying for her glass of juice, but when she made to drink from it, she realised there was nothing inside, so she merely fidgeted with the soft plastic, almost crumpling it.

“You've been awfully silent.” the blonde observed.

“Yeah, more silent than usual.” Nicole agreed with an exaggerated nod. Then, arching an inquisitive eyebrow she asked impishly “Is it anyone we know?”

Ori blinked in confusion, feeling her eyebrows knit.

“What..?”

“Whoever has you blushing, like the proverbial maiden, Anne.” the girl elaborated with a wave of her hand “Is it someone we know?”

Ori's eyes widened on their own accord and she felt her cheeks grow warmer. What in Mahal's name... Was she so obvious? She lowered her head, in a futile attempt to hide herself in the folds of her woollen cardigan.

“So there _is_ someone!” Lucy exclaimed victoriously, then turning to her friend “I've told you she's been acting oddly lately.”

The two girls turned in her direction and for the second time in the span of less than an hour Ori found herself drawing a comparison between her former siblings and the duo. The inquisitive way they were looking at her, expecting an answer reminded her eerily of the many times Nori and Dori had done the same. And in a perfect re-enactment of what she would have done in her past life, Ori stuttered something incoherent, while her hands fidgeted in utmost nervousness.

“Is it the library bloke?” Lucy inquired with a grin and she must have noticed Ori's frown because she elaborated “The one who has been checking you out?”

“You mean the one who has been ogling every person that looks vaguely feminine?” Nicole asked dryly.

“That's not true.” Lucy protested, turning her attention back to her friend “You're just too cynical, that's what you are.”

“Oh, so I am cynical, now?” the dark-skinned girl asked tartly and the other girl nodded, pushing up her glasses which had slipped down her nose.

“You are...”

“It's not the library bloke.” Ori piped in shyly, feeling her heart flutter and Nicole stopped mid-glower. She snapped her head in Ori's direction with curiosity and her bushy curls bounced from the motion.

Ori knew, if she had wanted to, she could have easily let the two girls descend into the umpteenth borderline argument and have the attention switched off herself. But there was a part of her that wanted to tell someone about the events that had transpired in the past days. A part of her that wanted to shout it out for anyone to hear, if only to reassure herself it _had_ actually happened.

To reassure herself that it was real.

Because somewhere still lingered the gut-twisting fear it would all disappear as fast as it had begun and everything would be back to the awkward avoidance their interactions had reduced to just a week before.

“Well, who is it then?” Lucy asked, leaning over the lunch tray and pushing up her glasses again and Ori looked for a way to put it all into words, bypassing all she couldn't tell them – that John was Thorin, that he had been Ori's King, that they had known each other since their past lives and so on and so forth.

“Someone I've known for a long time” she replied at last and somehow the words just came on their own. Before she knew it, Ori was telling the two girls about the past year's events – the beginning of their friendship, the car-accident, moving in, Thorin's birthday, her unfounded jealousy, all the bits and bobs which had led to the past weekend.

As she spoke Ori couldn't escape feeling the strangeness of being the one who held the other two girls' attention for once. It was almost uncanny after a month and a half of just listening. Although, undivided as their attention might have been, it did not mean Ori was allowed to finish a single sentence without being peppered with questions from both the fellow students. But in spite of the endless interruptions and inappropriate questions which had her blush to what no doubt must have been a deep crimson, Ori found it was nice to talk about all that with someone. Someone other than her inner self, that was.

As the words came tumbling out of her mouth everything seemed to crystallise and the events which had been shrouded in the haze of disbelief became more tangible. More real.

“So, what does it make you?” Nicole asked when Ori had finished her tale and she eyed her in confusion.

“Are you friends with benefits, or what?” the dark-skinned girl offered with a smirk and Ori stopped in her tracks.

“Don't be silly. There had hardly been much benefit there, unless Anne is not telling as all.” Lucy rebutted with a wink to her friend “No, I'd say they are together.”

Nicole eyed her sceptically, but she did not reply, looking at Ori to supply them with an answer. An answer to a question she had not posed herself yet. And she cursed herself for her foolishness. For making assumptions when nothing had been made clear.

  
  


Thorin turned the doorknob of his bedroom's door, pushing it open and switching the lights on while his feet carried him towards the wardrobe. He untied his tie absent-mindedly, smoothing the navy blue fabric before he folded it and put it back in the drawer where it belonged. He worked on the buttons of his shirt, barely registering his own motions. He was a creature of habit and he was content of it. It was one his greatest allies in the ungrateful task of holding himself together – along with his self-imposed iron discipline, the one which had allowed him to push forward even when things had been at their direst, even when his own mind would rebel against him, treacherously stabbing him in the back and drawing out all breath form his lungs.

He stopped mid-motion, the edge of one of the small plastic buttons cutting in the skin of his thumb and index as his grip on it tightened. He loathed how panic always lurked behind the corner, so easily summoned by a growing number of things – or perhaps it wasn't the number than grew, but the memories that resurfaced after thirty-three years of repression. In the end it didn't matter. The only relevant thing was Thorin always had to keep his guard up and monotony was the easiest way to achieve it.

But his life lately had been anything but monotonous, hadn't it?

He was treading over slippery stone, blindly.

All that had happened in the past days, along with the disbelief and heart-bursting elation – and that something which had coiled demandingly deep within him at the closeness of Ori's lithe body – it all made Thorin feel an apprehension which was sired by the many uncertainties of it all.

His eyes fell on the meticulously made bed which had been Ori's doing and Thorin felt the weight of possibilities settle on his shoulders. The burden of what he wished and _wanted_ , and what could be. The countless ways in which the unwarranted bliss of the past days could be destroyed. It all seemed so frail.

In the past year Ori had made herself a part of his life and now that, despite all odds, Thorin was given a chance to have something greater than a friendship – something he had never thought he'd want, not past the occasional companionable encounter which held no depth of emotion – and he felt scared.

He hated it. The desire to banish fear, to annihilate it had always been one of his strongest propelling forces. The things he had done to stop being afraid. He felt his lip curl in displeasure. He hadn't feared for himself. No, he had never cared much for his own fate. But his family, his people, losing them... He shook his head, taking the shirt off and tossing it on the floor. He took a clean T-shirt and put it on. The future was once again beyond his power to control and it shook the precarious balance he had built his life around and fear festered.

Thorin knew what he wanted. He wanted Ori by his side – and into his arms – the way she had been since Saturday night. There was nothing in the world that would have made him relinquish what they had. He recalled with a leap of his heart how after the initial strangeness of it all they had resumed their usual interactions, spending hours to no end talking about the most disparate things or simply quietly inhabiting the same room, engrossed in their respective tasks. And while it had been a strong echo of how things had been before that fateful dinner with Harriet and the realisation which had been a landslide in their friendship, there was now a shift in the way the behaved around one another, a change of perspective which made everything suddenly more important. He was constantly on edge and yet, at very same time, he was sure he had never felt more at ease and relaxed as he was when she was around. The closeness of their bodies, the way her hands would find him, how her lips would part when he kissed her, her eyes and the spectrum of emotion in those brown orbs, it was all precious to him.

But there was a precariousness, a feeling it could all vanish into thin air, which unsettled him – and Thorin knew it was his fear speaking, it was fear that made his stomach twist. He knew it could be simple, if only he allowed himself to believe it. It _had_ been simple, incredibly so, once he had gathered the courage to speak to Ori about their first kiss.

He ran his hand thorough his hair, trying to bring order to his thoughts.

Thorin _needed_ order. In chaos lay madness and he knew how easy it had been for him to slip off the brink of reason, to fall into its dark embrace. It lurked behind the edge of his thoughts, in the echo of his desires. In the shadow of his need to have all under control. In the selfish reflection of the greater good. He had lost once the grip on his mind and the thought alone of what it had wrought was enough to slam the air out of his lungs.

No, he needed order. He needed to bring his life into balance once again. But the hope of Ori being part of that balance was just that, a hope. A burning, bright and aching hope.

He sat down on the covers of his bed and shook his head.

  
  


Ori looked at Thorin's face and wondered at how time had a strange way of flowing, especially when he was around. It slowed and raced, spiralling out of control and leaving just the two of them, lost in one another even when all they did was eat or wash the dishes. Or sit, like they were currently doing, half sprawled over the sofa, with Thorin regaling her with a tale of Dwalin's rowdy youth which had Ori giggling as the tried to imagine the burly dwarven warrior awkwardly blushing in embarrassment.

Thorin's eyes were dancing while he recounted his tale with his customary seriousness and Ori was happy for the underlying lightness of his tone. There had been a weight in his sky-blue eyes when she had returned home that evening, a cautiousness which had seemed almost apprehension and the echo of the conversation she had had with Lucy and Nicole earlier that day had resounded in her ears. She had felt an irrational fear in that moment, a fear which had taken its time at being dispelled.

It had made their supper a somewhat strained affair, but as the evening had gone on and Ori had pushed back her doubts for later perusal, the tension in his shoulders had relaxed and with it the knot in her stomach, until nothing but a lingering doubt remained.

A doubt which she could not banish. Nicole's question had woven into her mind tightly. It was something that needed answering. That moment, them sitting there with their fingers laced together, was something that needed defining.

But how could she ask that? And moreover, did she truly want an answer? She leaned into him, half-burying her head in his shoulder while his voice kept going on with his tale. Ori listened to him, but beyond the rich sound of his voice the doubt gnawed and she bit her lip.

“What is it?” he asked her suddenly, and she looked up to see him frown. A heartbeat of silence stretched long and uneasy.

“This.” she said at last, timidly, gesturing at the two of them “What... what is it?”

His eyes, which had not left hers, suddenly became guarded.

“What do you want it to be?” he asked her evenly, but Ori heard a strain in the flatness of his tone.

“I...” she faltered, at loss for words, for a definition she had so desperately ached for a moment before.

What did she want? There were things she could want, _did_ want, and many more she was afraid to even wish for. As her thoughts raced and hundreds of sentences begun in her mind but never reached completion there was only one constant - the one which had made her wary in the first place, which had made Nicole's question and suggestion feel like a sucker punch to the gut – and she lowered her head, looking at him through the curtain of her fringe.

“I don't want it to disappear.” she told him quietly and for a moment he just held her gaze.

“Neither do I.” he said at last and his voice held weight and promises which went unuttered but Ori understood more clearly then any words could have conveyed and her heart jumped, beating loudly in her ears.

It was all she needed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Heart Like Yours” by Williamette Stone.


	20. The beat of my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lines, foul moods and discoveries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is being brought to you by sheer stubbornness. Between the unbearable heat, no internet and no computer it's nothing short of a miracle you are reading this. :)

 

Thorin woke up and reached towards the bedside table with his right hand to turn the alarm clock before it went off. He slowly opened his eyes to the bright green glow of the digits which broke the relative darkness of the bedroom. Ori was sleeping blissfully by his side, one of her freckled arms loosely wrapped around his torso and he was glad he had woken before the alarm clock had began blaring and had woken her up at crack of dawn.

Her head was snuggled in the crook of his neck and her breath tickled his skin while the whole length of her lithe body was pressed against his side, warm and soft. Thorin's heartbeats raced and he tightened his hold of Ori, feeling the sharpness of her hipbone under his hand. It was nearly excruciating to have her so close he could hear the sound of her heart steadily beating in slumber. To have her so near and yet ache to close the remaining distance, the hairbreadth of space between them. And drown in her. Have all of her.

It was a coil of red-hot metal that burned within Thorin, demanding, tightening around him and like many mornings before, it took all of his self-discipline to stop himself from _wanting,_ to force his limbs to move _away,_ extricating himself from Ori and gingerly getting out of bed, careful not to wake her.

He stood up, flustered, and the cold floor under his bare feet felt grounding. Thorin did not move, facing the dark wall before him, untouched by the faint light coming from the street-lamp under the window, while he struggled to banish the images which had flooded his mind. Images of what could be - of what he wished _would_ be.

The sound of Ori's breathing was almost loud in the absolute silence of the room and he refused to think of how it sounded when she was wrapped close to him, when they kissed, when his arms travelled down the ridge of her spine. How it would hitch. And how hard it always was to stop himself.

He shook his head irritated with himself and strode towards the door. He reached for the doorknob, opening it silently. With every passing day it became more and more arduous, but it had been merely three weeks since it had all begun - since he had finally kissed her the way he had wanted to. Since she had eagerly reciprocated it. It had been three weeks and while some days it seemed as if it had been like this forever - Ori beaming at him when he came back home from work, often after she had returned from her lessons, and her, standing on her tiptoes to kiss him, her heart hammering in her chest when he drew her closer and her eyes, big brown eyes, looking at him as if she couldn't quite believe it was all real - but it was such a frightfully short span of time that the near-disbelief her gaze bore was mirrored in the pocket of fear that lingered under Thorin's breastbone.

He closed the door behind him, walking down the dark hallway and descending the stairs. The past weeks had been a bliss of the likes he was hardly deserving, but he selfishly enjoyed every moment of it, never forgetting it could all disappear as fast as it had happened. Their friendship had been precious to him, but they had shattered it and something different, a precarious new balance was building itself. And Thorin was determined to not ruin it all. Ori was _too_ important.

He reached the end of the stairs and he veered right, yanking the basement door open. Thorin switched the light on, waiting for the neon to flicker into life. He needed to get himself under control, to drown the red-hot wire within him in frosty water and hear the sizzle of it cooling down. He eyed the heavy bag hanging in the corner and nodded to himself. It would do.

  
  


The door clicked closed and Ori lifted her eyelids sluggishly, wincing slightly as the morning light hit her irises. She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the quiet sound of footsteps and she forced her eyes to open, carefully this time. Slowly, the bedroom came into focus and with it the half-dressed figure of Thorin in the middle of taking out a clean shirt out of his wardrobe.

Ori observed him silently in the pale morning light. The hard lines of his broad bare back and the muscles that rippled as they moved. Her mouth went dry and she swallowed, feeling a violent blush travel up her cheeks and burn. Ori made to avert her eyes, to give him a modicum of privacy.

And then she saw them. Her eyes widened impossibly and her heart did a double-take.

They were barely noticeable in the wane light of the room, but they were there nonetheless. From the lowest, just above his waist, to the highest by his left shoulder-blade there were one, two, three... _seven_ scars that looked like... She inhaled sharply and Thorin pivoted on the spot, the grey fabric of his shirt hanging limply in his hand while his blue eyes fastened on hers in the briefest moment of sudden surprise.

"Are... are those..." she began, untangling from the covers and getting out of bed while Thorin frowned in puzzlement "On your back, are those _bullet-holes_?"

His eyes widened ever so slightly in realisation and he relaxed his posture while Ori felt a knot inside her chest. A knot his explanation did not unlace

"They are the reason why I'm no longer in the Army." he told her simply and made to put his shirt on, effectively ending the conversation on the topic. There wasn't much to say on it any way - they had shot him and he had survived. There had been far worse things he had witnessed in his years on the forces - and before, in his past life - things that had left deeper albeit invisible scars which sometimes still bled, things that cut his breaths short.

But Ori's eyes were wide in concern and Thorin sighed.

"It was years ago" he said trying to placate her concern, but her freckled face was a mask of worry and her teeth were digging in her bottom lip while she pulled the hem of the T-shirt she had been sleeping in.

"It could have killed you." she said in a small voice, stepping closer "Thorin, there are... there are _seven_ of them."

And three had gone straight through him, coming out on his front, unnoticeable under the hair on his chest, but he did not tell her that. Instead he levelled her a serious look, saying

"Ori, I was on the forces." he discarded the shirt he had been holding and put both his hands on her shoulders "It was a risk that came with the job."

Then he added

"It's in the past, there's nothing to worry yourself about."

She lowered her head slightly, looking at him from under her messy fringe, all tangled from sleep.

"I'm being silly, am I not?" she asked with an uncertain smile, feeling the tangle of worry ease somewhat.

Thorin shook his head.

"I'd never think you silly." he replied earnestly and Ori pressed her palm on his shoulders and her lips caught his in a kiss that began shyly but too soon grew burdened with all the emotions which the thought of Thorin's past brush with death had evoked in her. The breath-choking image of Thorin's still visage shrouded in the pallor of death. The mourning laments and the shimmer of the Arkenstone placed on his unmoving armoured chest. The loss and disorientation at the thought of their King being forever lost to them as the loud thud of the tombstone falling into place had echoed in the silent crypt.

But it hadn't been forever.

No, it hadn't. She pressed herself closer and his arm sneaked around her waist holding her there, flush to his chest. He was there, _alive_ despite all odds, kissing her back.

Kissing her the way he had done for the past weeks. And once again they were there, dancing dangerously close to the brink, to the smeared edge of that line which they had not dared crossing yet. The kiss deepened and Ori tilted her head, drawing herself closer to him, while his arms circled her tightly.

One of his hands found its way to the small of her back where her shirt had lifted slightly and the touch of his calloused fingers on her skin made her lose all semblance of thought. And that phantom line came closer, spiralling around them.

When they broke apart, short of breath and Thorin looked at her, his pupils so wide his eyes were almost dark, she boldly kissed him again, answering his unuttered question. His hand travelled up her back while Ori closed her eyes. And when her calves hit the edge of the bed there were no lines, no boundaries, nothing but Thorin.

  
  


The clock ticked loudly on the kitchen wall, resounding through the joint rooms and teasing Ori's already tense nerves which were steadily nearing their snapping point. She turned the pages of a paperback volume on early canon law, huffing in frustration. The second week of December had come and passed in a blink and suddenly the deadline for her essay on the influences of canon law on the development of common law in the Middle Ages was looming ahead.

She shifted her legs underneath her - they had gone slightly numb from hours of sitting cross-legged on the sofa while the last light of the rainy afternoon had waned into pitch darkness - and marked a passage on the tension between the Theocracy and Caesaropapism which seemed useful. She was far behind with her essay. She should have started working on it weeks before, especially considering the necessary research, but the past month had been rather hectic and her mind had been focused on other things.

On Thorin. Her mind had been focused on him. The voice inside her head sounded chastising but Ori couldn't care less, in spite of her deeply ingrained sense of duty.

She didn't regret a minute of it, especially not the past week. A slight blush rose on her cheeks. No, she definitely didn't regret _that_. Her blush deepened as her mind found it fit to supply her with images. With bare skin and tangled limbs. Thorin's hoarse voice and herself, melting under his touch. It had been perfection - _completion -_ the way they fit together. Crossing that imaginary line, that last barrier of fabric and thought which had separated them, losing herself in him and at the same time finding that grounding sense of reality, it had vanquished the eerie feeling of precariousness they had been tiptoeing in since that kiss - that first _proper_ kiss. Her heart danced in her chest and she smiled in spite of the anxiety for the impending deadline for the half-finished essay.

She had less than a week to write that horrible paper and, unlike most things she studied, Ori couldn't find it within herself - or anything within the topic itself for that part - to be interested about it. She _was_ very curious by nature, but even her curiosity ran dry when confronted with the evolution of common law. Ori sighed, flicking away a stray lock of hair that had escaped the messy bun at the nape of her neck while she stared for a moment at the darkness outside the living-room's bay window. Juridical matters had never interested her much. Their application, yes - the effects they had on people, on history. But not the principles - and especially not the minutiae - of law-making. And that fact didn't help with redaction of her essay, which in turn made her worry her lip because she had to deliver that paper willy nilly and she _couldn't_ do a sub-par job of it. She couldn't.

Ori shook her head with vehemence and put away the book she had been idly holding on her lap. She took her laptop and began rereading the text she had written so far. She was midway down the second page when she heard the sound of Thorin's footsteps coming down the stairs and it made her lift her head.

He had been digging through the attic ever since he had come home from work, looking for an old something that his sister needed for some reason on another which Thorin in his grumbling explanation had not specified. His mood had been on the miffed side, the way he often was after having spoken with Harriet and Ori had deduced they must have talked on the phone on Thorin's way home since he had been still glaring when he had ascended the stairs to reach the attic in order to look through the old bits and bobs that had belonged to his late mother, so Ori hadn't pressed him for information.

But it wasn't curiosity that made her close the lid of her laptop, gingerly putting it on the coffee table - before she extricated herself from the unseemly amount of books that were lying open halfway covering her - once Thorin had entered the kitchen carrying a dusty looking cardboard box which he deposited on the table. It was the grim set of his lips which Ori didn't like seeing, the only slightly less murderous expression on his face.

She reached the kitchen just as Thorin peeled off the old brown tape that kept the box closed.

"What is inside?" she inquired and Thorin turned his head towards her, his expression softening.

"My mother's old tea service." he replied, lifting the lids of the box to reveal a jumble of crumpled paper that filled it "Harriet needs it for some occasion, Christmas I believe."

There was a strange edge to his voice and Ori suddenly wondered if his thunderous mood before had been more than just the result of talking to his sister. Thorin hardly ever spoke of his mother. Maybe looking through her belongings had not been so easy for him. It was speculation on her part and she doubted she would ever find out if she was right in her assumption - Ori certainly wasn't going to ask - but it was a possible explanation.

He fished out a lump of what looked like yellowed newspaper and began to unwrap it carefully, revealing a frail-looking porcelain teacup. He looked at it for a moment, the familiar white surface broken only by a gilded edge and a discreet vine of the same material which curled around the handle. It had been such a long time since Thorin had seen it and it brought forth memories that were not unpleasant, but there was still something bitter-sweet in recalling the kind smile of his mother. Rosie, who had always known there had been something profoundly wrong with her youngest child, but had never pressed Thorin, never judged him - even when he had judged himself most harshly.

Ori was looking at him oddly and he schooled his expression, putting the teacup down and taking out the next one. He wanted to make sure the set had no broken pieces before he gave it to Harriet. She had told him she would be coming to London on Sunday to pick it up, worried it would end up breaking in the post delivery Thorin had suggested. And that had been the main reason for the annoyance that had coursed through him for better part of the evening.

It wasn't that he loathed to see his older sister - even if he had no doubt they would manage to grate on one another's nerves before the water in the kettle had boiled - but he remembered the last dinner he had had with her in Cardiff - a few days before his birthday - and the things she had told him.

Back then he hadn't even understood the meaning of her words and after the epiphany he had had Thorin had been single-mindedly focused on the change of perception he had had of Ori and he had nearly forgotten Harriet's scepticism.

Until she had told him she would be coming to Harrow and something wicked had twisted within him. He did not doubt Ori - one look at her eyes and her flushed freckled face when she breathed his name was enough to keep his fears at bay - but he _did_ dread his sister's words, the possibility in them.

He glanced to his left where Ori was contemplating the discarded newspaper pages the set had been wrapped in, with barely concealed interest and Thorin felt the corners of his lips tug upwards. It was just like Ori to be interested in random pages of an old newspaper from a decade - he glanced at the date in the corner of one of the pages she smoothing over - no, eleven years before.

It was just an old sports page featuring a football game, but Ori observed it with unabashed curiosity. She had always loved reading old newspapers, even when they wrote about inconsequential things. It was like a glimpse in a past present. The events that had been written about had been current in the moment the newspaper had been printed and it made Ori imagine what that particular past moment had really been like. It brought an entirely different perspective on a past she knew from textbooks.

Just like it did on the portions of the past Ori had lived through - like the next page Thorin had put on atop the discarded pile, which was swallowed whole by the second half of an article on Lady Di's funeral. It was something Ori remembered seeing on the telly when she had been ten years old, but it was entirely different to read about in an old newspaper article a decade and something after the event.

Thorin kept taking out the pieces of the tea service and Ori lost herself in the articles. She smoothed each piece of paper carefully, observing it, the black and white photos, the large titles - sometimes sensationalistic, sometimes sober. She realised after her tenth page that not all of them belonged to the same newspaper. Towards the bottom of the box there were pages from a Scottish newspaper of the same day and Ori eyed them with curiosity.

"This must be Mrs. Flint's." Thorin said over her shoulder and Ori blushed, slightly embarrassed at how engrossed she must had been in her perusal of the old newspapers if she hadn't noticed him move to stand behind her.

"Mrs. Flint?" she inquired, feeling his arm circle her waist and she leaned back, resting her head on his chest "Isn't that the lady who lives down the street?"

"She is. Mrs. Flint was a friend of my mother's." he explained "She moved to London from Scotland some forty years ago, but I remember mum always saying that she never stopped reading the Edinburgh Evening News."

Ori hummed, looking at the sparse pages with renewed interest and Thorin simply stood there, enjoying the sense of peace holding Ori summoned within him. His mind was always a raging storm, it was only the loudness of his thoughts which changed, but somehow she managed to make it seem as if the clouds could part - if only ever so slightly - and a real quiet be dreamed of.

It was foolish, he knew. He was far too damaged to ever be truly at peace with himself, but he took what he was given and thanked what powers were above for such unwarranted and undeserved mercy. The mercy of being able to feel the rise and fall of her chest against his own, to feel her hums reverberate through him.

"Thorin!" she exclaimed suddenly, startling him from his thoughts and pivoting in his hold with a wide-eyed expression of utter surprise "I can't believe it. Look!"

She was holding one of the discarded newspaper - the Scottish one - and her thin finger was pointing at black and white photo. Thorin frowned for a moment before he felt his eyes widen.

"Impossible." he said, taking the page from her hand and looking at it closely.

But there it was, in the background of the photo, the unmistakeable figure of a police officer whose face had been caught by the camera.

A face Thorin would recognise anywhere.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Oh My Heart” by R.E.M. .


	21. Ten thousand roads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends and dead ends.

The newspaper page was crumpled and several tears had formed at its edges. Thorin's fingers were almost gingerly holding it and Ori watched the emotions flicker through his usually stoic expression. Surprise and bemusement, disbelief, but also a cautious tinge of hope in his wide eyes.

"Dwalin." he breathed, then shaking his head "I can't believe it."

Thorin's eyes were fixed on the newspaper in his hands, his mother's tea service lying forgotten on the kitchen table and Ori remembered how important Dwalin had been in Thorin's past life. They had been friends in their own mutually taciturn way and Thorin had often regaled her with stories and anecdotes about the erstwhile dwarven warrior, and his eyes would dance while a grin tugged at the corners of his lips. She was glad Dwalin was back. And not just for Thorin's sake - Ori had always liked the gruff dwarf, in spite of the roughness of his manners.

"We must tell Balin." Thorin drew her out of her musings "He'll be glad to hear his brother is back too."

She nodded, smiling. That was bound to be a tearful reunion - Balin had never said so outright, but it was plain he missed his younger sibling achingly and Ori could relate. She didn't even dare imagining how it would be to have her brothers back, to hear that one of them had been found in a photo of an old Scottish newspaper.

Suddenly, her practical side kicked back in and Ori frowned. All they had was a photo of Dwalin in an old article of the Edinburgh Evening News.

How on Earth were they going to actually find him?

Thorin still held the newspaper page in his hands, staring at it wide-eyed and Ori stood on her tiptoes, trying to glance at the article that accompanied the photo. She wholeheartedly hoped it said anything about the young bearded police officer who had been caught glaring at the camera.

She had read her way to the second paragraph when Thorin suddenly noticed her, his expression turning sheepish - he must had noticed she was craning her neck - and he lowered the yellowed page.

Ori felt the corners of her lips twitch, but the titter of amusement faded away as she meticulously read the article which spoke about the arrest of some local businessman for embezzlement. It spoke eloquently about the prime suspect in the crime, but as Ori reached the end of the text she was none the wiser about the current identity of the former dwarf. She grimaced, handing the page back to Thorin who had been reading over her shoulder.

"How are we going to find him?" she asked, frowning and the edge of doubt in her tone must have cut through Thorin's cautious joy because his lips set into a thin line and he shook his head again.

"I have no idea." he admitted "It says nothing about him?"

He knew the answer already, but he had asked nonetheless.

"No." she predictably replied, hanging her head slightly while her shoulders slumped in defeat.

Thorin felt frustration simmer within him, taking the place of the initial jolt of elation he had experienced at the sight of his old friend's face scowling at him through the dusty newspaper page. They knew absolutely nothing about Dwalin - there was no name, let alone a mean of getting in touch with him. The only knowledge they had - save from the fact he had been reborn just like them - was that he worked - or at least _had been_ working - for the Edinburgh police. All in all it amounted to nothing.

"Maybe we can call the newspaper." Ori offered tentatively, worrying her lip slightly "I mean, I know it was a decade ago, but perhaps we can reach the journalist who wrote it."

"Perhaps." he said pensively "It's worth a try."

He doubted it would yield much result, but Ori was already walking towards the coffee table in the living room. She lifted the lid of her laptop, sitting down on sofa and Thorin followed her, stopping behind her, leaning his arms on the backrest.

"I'll look up the newspaper's contacts." she told him, eyes glued to the screen which had flickered to life.

Her fingers typed fast on the keyboard.

"And I was thinking, maybe we could scan this page, or take a photo of it, so we have a copy just in case." she added "Besides we could e-mail it that way... Oh, there it is!"

She fumbled through the papers which were scattered near her laptop, fishing out a pen and scribbling the contacts she had found on a post-it note.

"I think it's a bit too late to call them now." she told him, handing him the green square of paper.

"I'll call them tomorrow morning." he said and Ori smiled at him.

She closed her laptop and bit her lip as her eyes fell on the pile of books which had been haphazardly stacked behind her laptop.

"Do you need a hand with the tea service?" she asked him, glancing in the kitchen's direction.

"No, I'll manage." he replied with a shake of his head "Get back to your essay."

She grimaced, but gave him a lopsided smile nonetheless. He turned to go back to the kitchen when he suddenly remembered he hadn't told Ori about Harriet's impending visit.

"What is it?" she asked him, noticing his hesitation.

"I've talked to Harriet earlier today." he said and she nodded "She'll be coming to London on Sunday."

"Okay." she said, confused by the frown on Thorin's brow. She knew he never rejoiced in his sister's visits, but... " _Oh._ Is she coming _here_?"

The twist of Thorin's lips would have been an answer enough, but he replied

"Yes." annoyance dripping off that one syllable "She is coming to take the tea service."

Ori nodded, stopping her hands from fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. She had met Harriet during the summer, but in spite of the polite small-talk she still found the older woman intimidating. Between her terseness and her permanently pursed lips, and the cold blue eyes which she shared with her younger brother - eyes which were currently looking at her questioningly - Ori had been nervous in the other woman's presence. She wished she could say she was looking forward to seeing her again, but all she could do was exhale a breath.

"Ori?" he inquired, his frown deepening.

"Is she coming for dinner or just for tea?" she asked, getting a grip of herself - Dori had taught her better manners than that.

"I don't know." he told her with a shrug "Tea, I suppose. She always claims she would never willingly subject herself to my cooking."

"What's wrong with your... never mind." she waved her puzzlement off. Tea. She could deal with that. The house would have to be properly cleaned up, though. Not that it wasn't tidy, but Dori had set certain standards when it came to guests and Ori had wholeheartedly embraced them. She began making a mental list of tasks she had to fulfil before Sunday came. She could do it, there was plenty of time.

Except there wasn't. Not when she had to finish her essay first - that wretched thing which was sub-par and that would not do, not at all. It was due in three days and Ori would have to manage her time well, especially since there was the whole research to be made about Mister Dwalin. The mounting stress which had plagued most of her day came back full force and she flicked her hair behind her ear with a nervous gesture, sighing.

"Ori" Thorin begun, with a tinge of uncertainty in his voice, catching her attention "You don't have to meet with Harriet if you don't want to."

"No, no." she told him, getting to her feet "It's alright."

Then, sighing

"I'm just... I have too many things to do and too little time to do it" she admitted "And Harriet _is_ a bit scary, but then again so have been you and that didn't stop me from trying to convince you to let me come along on the Quest so..."

"Scary?" he asked her with a smirk, one of his eyebrows cocked up and Ori felt a blush creep up her cheeks.

"Tease all you like." she said, crossing her arms in mock indignation, but her own lips twitched "But I was _terrified._ If it hadn't been for Mister Balin's encouragement I doubt I would have ever found the courage."

Thorin shook his head in silent laughter, then his expression growing serious once again

"Are you sure? About Sunday." he inquired, walking around the sofa and coming to stand in front of her.

"I am." she replied and stood on her tiptoes once again, but this time it was to press a kiss on his lips.

  


The desk lamp made the old crumpled paper seem even more yellow that it was as he held it his hand, glaring. He had called the newspaper the day before, but after much talking and repeating himself and being put on hold more times than his patience could endure, Thorin had been told the journalist who had written the article had passed away several years before and no, they had no idea who the officer in the photo could be.

The next two days had been an exercise in futility as he had tried every way he could think of to get the information from the Edinburgh police but, predictably, had been told absolutely nothing. He put the newspaper page down on the desk, feeling frustrated beyond measure. Dwalin was there - somewhere in Edinburgh very likely - he was _back._

Thorin hadn't realised just how much he had missed the younger dwarf's stalwart presence until now. Ever since Dwalin had been a child he had always been around Thorin and his siblings. Dwalin had been closer in age to Frerin and Dís, but somehow it had been Thorin who had become his friend - Dís had been too attached to their mother and Frerin... He inhaled sharply his lungs constricting, but he fought it, pushed it down.

Frerin had been too delicate for the likes of Dwalin. His wide eyed _nadadith_ who had been able too see the beauty of the dusty road which had taken the place of their home - which Thorin had _hated_ with all his might while Frerin had just smiled, finding something to be fascinated with. His brother who had been forced to join that battle in spite of never having much of a warrior, who had put that armour the way a man wore his noose on the gallows, his big blue eyes widened in fear and pleading for Thorin to do something, but he had been helpless against their grandfather's decision. Frerin who had been one of the burned dwarves.

Thorin swallowed, his breaths somehow more or less still under control.

No, while Frerin and Dwalin had gotten along when it had come to music - when the young warrior would briefly let his scowling guard down and take his late mother's viol to play it - Dwalin had seldom sought Frerin's company, more often than not electing to spend his time sparring with Thorin. And as his frame had built up and he had grown as tall as Thorin, he had made it more and more difficult for Thorin to win their matches, until the day had come when Dwalin's training axe had stopped by Thorin's jugular, marking them as equals.

He remembered that day with perfect clarity. It had been more or less a year before the Battle of Azanulbizar and the early Autumn morning had been cold, a dry wind blowing from the White Mountains. It had been just the two of them, foolish enough to spar at the crack of dawn, but for Thorin it had been more than exercise - it had been a way to keep his temper in check and in hindsight he knew it had been the same for Dwalin. They had both been filled with such rage. Perhaps that was what had made them become friends, the rage which had burned with the heat of a crucible within them both.

Time had quelled it, replacing it with the cold steel of determination in Thorin and the fiercest loyalty in Dwalin. Time and death.

But Dwalin had never left his side, not even when Thorin would have deserved it - when he had pointed his blade at him and had seen only an enemy. He gripped the armrest of his chair, steadying his breaths. He couldn't think about that. He _couldn't._ Not about _those_ days under the Mountain. No.

His gaze fell on the discarded article and he watched the black and white photo of his friend, willing his body to remain under control.

Dwalin had been the truest friend, almost a brother to him and he was back. In this world, in this day and age. If only Thorin were able to find him. He shook his head in frustration, the annoyance that coursed through him pushing back the panic which had been thrumming under the surface of his reminiscing and he let out a huff which held all the bottled up emotions.

"Is everything all right?" Ori's voice made him turn on his chair sharply.

She was standing in the doorway with a small frown on her forehead and Thorin wondered how long she had been standing there. He must had stayed silent for too long because her frown deepened.

"Thorin?" she said, entering his study and he shook his head.

"I'm fine." he said "I just wish I had made any progress."

"Nothing yet?" she asked, leaning on his desk and he shook his head, scowling.

"Well, I'm _finally_ done with my essay now." she told with a small - and tired, he noted - smile "So I can help you with your search."

"I appreciate it, but I think we reached a dead end." he replied, getting to his feet.

He paced around his small study, telling her of his progress - or lack thereof - and at the same time venting out all his annoyance at being unable to find any kind of information regarding Dwalin. It was a rant mostly, but Ori patiently listened, her big brown eyes following his movements.

"There is just no way someone outside the force will get information about an officer." he said glaring at the curtain which covered the darkness of the sky outside the window.

"We'll find a way." she told him, pushing off the desk and coming to where he stood, palms pressed on the windowsill.

"There seems to be no way." he rebutted bitterly and Ori wedged herself between the window and him, levelling him a look of disapproval which echoed the ones she had given him over the course of the summer when he had been too stubborn in trying to do things in stead of resting his broken leg.

"Now you're being just negative." she told him calmly, but her tone was reprimanding "We _will_ find a way. We'll find Mister Dwalin"

Her voice lost the edge of steel towards the end and Thorin sighed, nodding. He wasn't going to give up - it was against his very nature to do so, but he couldn't help the pessimism which had taken hold of him. It was so very much like him to have the things he wanted, the things which he was willing to fight tooth and nail for, there, just a footstep away from him and yet unreachable.

Not all, though - he mused - gently pushing away a tendril which had escaped Ori's bun while her eyes fluttered closed at the touch. It was the briefest moment, but Thorin knew he _had_ been given something after all. Something important. Something precious.

Her eyes opened and she looked at him with a smile on her lips that made his heart hammer in his chest and he leaned down, capturing her lips with his own and forgetting, erasing from his mind all which had burdened him for the past hours, all the frustration, all the helplessness, all the memories. Ori's lips parted and he deepened the kiss, losing himself in the complex simplicity of Ori, in the feeling of her lithe body pressed so close to his, trapped between him and the windowsill.

There were no thoughts as he kissed her on the freckled curve of her neck, just beneath her reddish blonde hair and she gasped, arching into him. Her fingers dug into his back and there was molten iron coursing through him, burning all in its trail until there was nothing but the beating of her heart, frantic as his own, and the taste of her lips which had somehow found his own and she was pushing the two of them away from the window while at the same time her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. And Thorin was truly lost.

  


The sponge fell in the sink with a damp thud and Ori took off a rubber glove to wipe the perspiration off her brow. The kitchen gleamed, more pristine than it had ever been since she had moved to Thorin's house. She took the other glove off and washed her hands. She had been meaning to clean the outer surfaces of the kitchen, but bit by bit she had ended up taking everything out of the cupboards and doing an in-depth cleaning.

She took a chair out and seated herself, gulping down a glass of water. Ori was aware she may had exaggerated in her zeal, but Thorin's sister was coming today and busying herself with tidying the house had been a good way not to think about how much she dreaded the encounter.

Ori refilled her glass from a jug she had taken out of the fridge before. It wasn't Harriet herself which made her apprehensive – although Harriet _was_ undeniably intimidating – but rather her reaction to the change of dynamics between Thorin and Ori. If the older woman had gazed at her in a piercingly scrutinising way when Ori had been merely visiting, she didn't know what kind of reaction to expect now that their friendship had been replaced by a... well, it _was_ a relationship, even though the term had never been explicitly used.

Regardless of the term, Ori was certain Thorin's sister was going to react in some way. She only hoped it would be good, because if the biting retorts Thorin and Harriet had exchanged the day of Ori's impromptu visit to Harrow were any indication, things could become rather unpleasant very easily with those two. Both Thorin and his sister were incredibly stubborn and knew their way around rhetoric – after all Thorin had been raised to rule and Harriet was a lawyer...

Ori nearly dropped her glass. She felt her eyes widen at the sudden realisation. Harriet had told her she was a solicitor, working for the Crown Prosecution Service. A strangled chuckle escaped Ori's lips. How hadn't they thought about it before?

She rose to her feet, striding towards the stairs and nearly running her way up. Their search for Dwalin had met a dead end because, as Thorin had said, the police would not give informations to people outside the force. To outsiders. But Harriet wasn't one. She worked for the prosecution, which meant she was bound to interact with the police. It could be worth a try, even if Harriet worked in Cardiff and they needed to get informations from the Scottish police.

“I think I found a solution.” she exclaimed, striding into Thorin's study and he looked up from his paperwork, surprise in his gaze.

“You did?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the third instalment in the series: [A hole in the soul](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4474253/chapters/10169603)  
> It's a companion piece about Dwalin and Frerin set several years before Lonely souls. :)
> 
> Chapter title taken from “If I Be Wrong” by Wolf Larsen.


	22. Life got in between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope and shrewdness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems I do nothing other than apologising lately for my slow updates, but in my defence, the heat in this corner of Europe has been utterly inhuman this past week (and when I say inhuman I mean the average temperature was so high you could have forged another One Ring with ease). It has been difficult enough to just breathe or generally exist, let alone write... 
> 
> That being said, I'll leave you to Thorin and Ori. Enjoy! :)

The water poured into the teacups and steam rose from the surface, quickly dispelling itself in the moderate heat of the kitchen. Ori put down the kettle and put some scones on a plate, wondering how long could she linger there before the tea became too cold or too strong to be considered decent. She leaned against the kitchen counter, biting her lower lip while she glanced towards the living-room where Thorin and his sister were currently sitting.

They were straining their abilities at small-talk in order to hold a conversation and the tension between them was as high as it had been the last time Ori had been around the two siblings. It had made her shift uncomfortably in her seat and she had grabbed the first opportunity to leave them alone, telling herself that Thorin needed to talk to Harriet about the Dwalin situation and that it was a conversation best done without her - that it would also mean she was no longer subjected to Harriet's assessing glare and curl of displeasure was just an added bonus. Or so she told herself.

She shifted her gaze on the blonde woman who was sitting with her back ramrod straight under her white blouse and tailored jacket. Harriet had eyed her most uncomfortably since she had stepped inside their home with a bout of bitingly cold midwinter air. Ori had been the one to open the front door and Harriet had greeted her with the same terseness she had used in their past two encounters. And when Thorin had come down the stairs - just as Harriet had been taking off her leather gloves - he had unconsciously placed his hand on Ori's lower back, and the gesture had not gone unnoticed by Harriet. Her carefully painted lips had pursed while she had shot her brother a pointed look - which in turn had made him glare at her, while his grip on Ori had tightened ever so slightly.

It was quite plain his sister had not been happy with what she had seen - with _them_ \- and in a way it was what Ori had feared since Thorin had told her of her upcoming visit. But in spite of anticipating a negative reaction, she still couldn't help wondering why Harriet did not approve of her.

She sighed, fidgeting with the hem of her lilac sweater while she glanced at the gradually darkening tea in the teacups. Harriet's drawling voice and Thorin's biting replies to whatever inconsequential thing they were discussing about carried to the corner of the kitchen where she was leaning against the counter trying to tell herself Harriet's opinion of her didn't matter right now. That finding Mister Dwalin was more important at the moment.

And it was. She knew it and she believed it, but she couldn't help a small part of her from grimacing in disappointment and wishing Harriet wouldn't look at her as if she was doing something wrong.

Ori shook her head, banishing away the thought. Harriet, with her connections, was their only hope in finding Dwalin at the moment - if Thorin was able to persuade her, of course.

She sighed. As she listened to the aimless conversation in the living room she almost wished Balin was around to handle the situation - he would no doubt find a polite and roundabout way of asking for the older woman's assistance. But the erstwhile advisor was not around and the odds were he had yet no idea that his younger brother had been reborn as well. He had told them he would be travelling to Switzerland for the holidays and since he had not yet answered to the e-mail Thorin had sent him the same evening they had stumbled upon Dwalin's photo in that old issue of the Edinburgh Evening News, Ori was fairly sure he had not read it yet.

All Ori could do was put her hopes in Thorin's diplomatic abilities, such as they were.

Not that he was undiplomatic, _per se -_ she mused _._ He _had_ been able to handle smoothly many a difficult situation in the past. Being a scribe's apprentice and later a scribe, Ori had taken the minutes of a large number of important meetings in Thorin's Halls and had seen the King's diplomatic skills. Tactless as he was wont to be it would still be unfair not to admit that he had been a better diplomat than most Dwarves - instead of jumping to conclusions he had always listened before reaching a decision and he had been rather shrewd when he had wanted. But he had also been - and still was - terribly proud to the point of being haughty and his pride, especially when wounded, had made for the most _shining_ examples of poor diplomacy.

And Harriet had a nearly unique ability of irking him.

Ori shook her head lightly, looking at the two of them sitting respectively on the armchair and sofa. They were entirely too similar to go along and what differences were between them served only to increase their incompatibility, rather than making them complementary. And yet it was plain as day to her that they both deeply cared one for the other.

Not for the first time, Ori wondered how Thorin's relationship with his original siblings - Princess Dís and Prince Frerin - had been. Had it been as strained as the conversation Thorin was currently holding with Harriet, or had it been different? What kind of people had they been?

He never spoke of his former siblings - and it was only thanks to the knowledge of the history of their kin that Ori knew he ever had _had_ a younger brother - but she couldn't blame him for his reluctance. His brother had died very young in that terrible battle which had claimed too many dwarven lives - and Mister Bifur's ability to speak the common tongue amongst other things. And Ori suspected thinking about the Princess must remind him of Fíli and Kíli - and the pain of their demise.

Unbidden came the memory of that dinner with Balin, two months ago, when Thorin had learned of Kíli's death and the days - almost weeks - of silent brooding and avoidance which had ensued. Ori couldn't even begin to imagine how terribly difficult in must be for Thorin to bear all that grief, all that loss. She sighed, hanging her head before she shook it. How could she blame him for not speaking of his siblings when only a year ago Ori herself hadn't been able to think about Dori and Nori?

It still hurt with a deep wistfulness to think about them, but bit by bit it had become easier for her to recollect the times spent together. Perhaps it was Thorin or perhaps it was the hope which grew stronger and stronger with each former companion they found reborn - the hope that her brothers could be reborn. It made her heart skip a beat and steeled her determination to find Dwalin. If Balin had found Bilbo - and his wife - and Thorin and her had found one another, it wasn't impossible to think the burly warrior could have stumbled upon someone too.

It was almost too much to hope for and the idea that it could be one of her brothers was slim at best - she silently chuckled at the irony the universe should have in order to make Dwalin find Nori - but hope had always had a stubborn dwarven mind of its own, pigheadedly pushing forward even when entertaining certain notions had been foolish.

She tore her eyes from them and glanced at the tea, extracting the teabags and tossing them in the garbage bin. Foolish hope had carried Ori across half Middle Earth and dreaming of seeing her brothers once again seemed achievable when compared to a quest to reclaim a mountain from a fire-breathing dragon.

Ori glanced in the direction of the living-room, where the conversation had come to a lull and she pulled the hem of her sweater wondering whether she should return to them or give them a moment longer, in the hope Thorin would finally breach the subject.

  
  


The clock ticked on the wall, reverberating in the stretch of silence which had wedged itself within their poor attempt at a conversation. It wouldn't have bothered him much in an ordinary situation - only hours prior he had been prepared to it, it was the way Thorin's encounters with his sister usually went - but he had a goal to accomplish and after half an hour of idle small-talk his patience was running thin.

He needed to talk to Harriet about Dwalin - ask her for her _help_ in finding him - but he was at loss at how to breach the subject. He couldn't tell her the actual truth and that made the already unsavoury task much more arduous, since he had barely had the time to accept the fact that Ori's idea was the only viable way they had to find Dwalin at the moment, let alone think of a strategy.

The clinking of porcelain drew him out of his thoughts and his eyes fell back on Harriet who was seated in the armchair, her discomfort at the prolonged silence shown only by the light tapping of her bony fingers on the armrest. Thorin knew she was biting back a number of objections - he had noticed her reaction to Ori and he knew were they alone she would have no doubt subjected him to a second rendition of the speech she had given him back in November.

He was glad for the small mercy of being able to forego Harriet's pontifications on Ori's youth, at least for the time being - and with them the slicing of fear, shallow as it was but cutting nonetheless, which her words inspired.

The doubt they wedged within the bliss of the past five weeks.

He glanced in Ori's direction, a part of him needing the reassurance of the small smile she gave him the moment she caught his gaze. There was something akin to impatience in the light frowning of her coppery blond eyebrows and the way she toyed with the hem of her sleeve.

Thorin huffed a sigh and turned his attention back to Harriet who was busy looking at her painted fingernails.

"Hat." he began and she lifted her blue eyes, meeting his gaze "I need a favour."

"A favour?" she parroted with a drawl, blond eyebrows shooting up before they scrunched into a frown.

Her genuine expression of surprise suddenly evoked an array of long forgotten memories of a childhood spent looking up at that terribly tall girl who was his sister - and whom Thorin struggled to connect to the stern sneering woman he usually saw twice a year. She had been the older one, always indiscriminately on his side, never mentioning the countless nights he had woken from his nightmares only to find her lying by his side, stroking his curls while she had murmured words of comfort.

"I need your help with something." he told her, banishing his thoughts - he had been a small child, unable to comprehend all which he now knew where memories and he and Harriet had spent the past fifteen years disagreeing on just everything "I'm trying to find a person, an old acquaintance of mine."

"I hadn't thought I'd ever see him again, but the other day I accidentally found this." he took out the battered newspaper page Ori had had the presence of mind to put in a plastic folder.

He handed it to Harriet who took it gingerly, observing the yellowed paper with cautious interest.

"He's that cop in the photo." he told her and her eyes automatically fell on the black and white image in the middle of the page where a handcuffed man was flanked by two officers, one of whom was a rather young-looking Dwalin.

"I'm trying to find him, but I don't know his name." he admitted.

So far the truth was serving him well - with due omissions - but only a heartbeat after he had spoken Harriet predictably inquired

"You don't know his name?" there was a tinge of perplexity in her voice and she leaned forward with her elbows on her crossed legs.

"No." he replied tersely, then, knowing he had to satisfy Harriet's curiosity if he hoped to achieve anything he elaborated.

"I was never given his name." he said, hammering the truth until it bent to his needs. "I've always known him as Dwalin."

"Dwalin?" she repeated with a light shake of her head "What an odd nickname."

Her voice trailed as she eyed him with an arched eyebrow

"You're looking for this man. How exactly do you think I can help you?" she asked him, her expression still bemused.

"I've tried to contact the newspaper, but it yielded no result." he told her, continuing where she had interrupted him "And you can imagine how forthcoming the Edinburgh police was when I asked information about him."

Thorin saw the moment understanding dawned on her and her expression returned to her usual guarded self.

"What is your interest in this person, John?" she asked him, eyeing him inquisitively.

"We fought together." he told her, not lying and judging by the slight widening of her eyes - which was soon replaced by that tinge of callous disapproval she always sported whenever his years in the forces were discussed - she made the assumptions he had wanted her to make.

"He was in the Army with you?" she asked tersely, although it wasn't truly a question.

Harriet had never approved of that life choice of his and when he had just enrolled she had been most vocal in her opinions. With the passing of the years she had grown quieter, her disapproval calcifying in a hard look and faint scowl.

"He saved my life." he replied, not lying - since Dwalin had done so more than once in the century and some more they had fought side by side - but neither answering her question and her eyes suddenly went wider and for the briefest moment there was a mixture of pain and worry in them and he found himself frowning.

She visibly swallowed and Ori chose that moment to join them, tray in hand. Harriet grabbed a teacup and balanced the saucer on her thin hand.

"So you're looking for this... Scot I assume?" she asked, taking a sip of her tea, while Ori flashed him a lopsided smile as she sat down on the sofa to his left. "And all you know is that he's a cop now."

"I don't know if he is still one." he told her, then clarifying "It's a 1997 newspaper."

She looked at the folder that she had put on her lap and nodded as she no doubt checked the date. Harried gazed at the yellowed paper for the longest time and Thorin waited with bated breath for her answer. Ori took hold of his hand, biting her lip slightly and he squeezed it.

"I assume this is important." Harriet said at last, then added mostly to herself "You never ask for my help."

He merely looked at her and she met his gaze, holding it for the longest breathless moment, before she nodded tersely.

"I can't promise you anything, John." she said "But I'll see what I can do."

"It's more than enough, Hat." he assured her, exhaling the breath he had been holding. "Thank you."

  
  


Thorin lay down with a sigh, his head hitting the pillow with more force than necessary and he crossed his arms underneath it, looking at the white ceiling above which was illuminated by the small lamp on his bedside table. He felt wrung out after Harriet's visit, more than usually, but it _had_ been a long time since he had had to ask for anyone's help and even longer since it had been so important to him to get it. Not to mention that it had taken a particular effort of him to ask _her,_ of all people for aid.

He untangled his arms, letting them fall by his sides. She had accepted and that was all that mattered - not that the fact itself was a guarantee of any success. Thorin knew there was a distinct possibility that she wouldn't find anything at all, but he had to try. For himself, for Dwalin, but also for Balin. His oldest friend deserved to have his brother back and he didn't want to tell him that he had failed him, that he had been unable to do so. He had failed too many in the past. Too many.

He heard the sound of the bathroom door closing and it snapped him from a path of thought that he was glad not to tread. A moment later Ori appeared in the bedroom's doorway, looking as tired as he felt and she made her way to the bed. He smiled at her, feeling the tension dissipate as she lay down next to him, but it faltered as she wrapped her thin arm tightly over his chest and buried her head in his shoulder.

He pushed away a lock of hair that obscured her face, wondering what troubled her. His fingers lingered in her hair, soft and coppery in the yellow light of the lamp. Bit by bit he felt her grip relax and he was about to switch the lamp off when she suddenly exhaled a deep breath, lifting her head.

She looked at him, her fringe in disarray and her lips curled in a small grimace

"Your sister didn't seem happy." she said suddenly and he felt his own lips set in a thin line - so _that_ was what bothered her.

Ori looked at him expectantly - waiting for him to deny her assumption, no doubt, but he couldn't. She was right.

"No, she isn't." he admitted.

Ori's face fell and she lowered her eyes, but he stopped her before she bit her lip

"Ori," he said, giving her a pointed look "Harriet hasn't been happy with any of my life-choices since I joined the Army. This is no surprise."

And it was obviously the right thing to say because a moment later she replied wryly

"I gathered as much." and he found himself huffing a chuckle.

Her lips curved for a moment a well, only to deflate into a sigh. And before she even made to open her mouth he knew what she was going to ask, ever curious as only she was.

But he couldn't answer to that question - he didn't _want_ to answer to it, because it would drag forward a conversation he was not ready to have. He knew it was cowardly of him - and hadn't his cowardice made him torture himself for weeks when all could have been simple? But what if there was a grain of truth in Harriet's words, what if all this - Ori lying by his side, her hair under his fingers and her face so close he could count the freckles on her skin - what if _all_ of it was doomed to vanish? Was he willing to gamble the bliss of those moment - borrowed as they may be - for a conversation?

He only felt the lightest sting of guilt as he cupped her cheek and pulled her into a kiss, drowning any words she was about to utter, any questions in the touch of their lips and the mingling of their breaths.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Hold Back The River” by James Bay.


	23. Sometimes the stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of Kings and men.

 

The early morning air was bitingly cold against his skin. The pale rays of sunlight which filtered through the bare branches of the willow tree gave only an ephemeral sensation of warmth that vanished in the dry coldness, making the hand that was not clutching a steaming mug of tea, slowly go numb and he flexed his fingers to get some circulation back in them. Thorin was leaning against the wall of the house, idly observing the frost-covered back garden as the yellowed grass of the lawn glistened in the sunlight. The tiny crystals of frozen dew covered the leaves of the sparse evergreen shrubbery which had been planted by the patient hands of his mother before her body had grown too weak for manual labour, and the light reflected off the yews and hollies with a silvery gleam that reminded him of _mithril._

Of starlight reflected in the Mirrormere.

He had seen it, that first night after the Battle of Azanulbizar.

The dead had been beyond count and each family had cared for their own, cleaning them and readying their bodies to join their souls in the Halls of their Maker. And Thorin had done the same, slowly and painstakingly washing away every droplet of blood, every speck of dirt from his brother and grandfather, quietly praying no one would come to his tent, bringing him his father's corpse.

No one had.

And when Thorin had finished his ministrations he had felt the overwhelming urge to breathe, to be _out_ of that tent, to be away from the empty shells which had been his younger sibling – his innocent, wide-eyed _nadadith –_ and his grandfather, their King. But he had become King that day. In the wake of his father's disappearance they had hailed him as such and he had felt his shoulders crack under the weight of that kingship which shouldn't have been his, _not so soon_.

Thorin's feet had carried him away from his tent, leaving the dead to silence, and through the remnants of the battlefield where the tents littered over the blood soaked earth amongst the acrid smell of the makeshift pyres they had been burning the piles of dead orcs on. And the thought that all the dwarves who had died that day would be given a burial not so much different had made his steps turn into an angry stride as he crossed the expanse of the Dimrill Dale until he had reached the pool of Mirrormere.

The air had been as cold as the one that bit the exposed skin of his face and hands, and not a breath of wind had disturbed the clear water. Thorin had felt humbled in spite of the gaping hole of his grief as he had stood there - just like his forefather had done ages before - looking down into the darkness of the water and seeing the glittering stars above reflected with perfect clarity.

He had seen the Crown of Durin, just a foot too far to crown him, even though he had been standing by Durin's Stone and Thorin knew he should have heeded the omen for what it had been.

He had never been truly fit to be a King.

He _could_ have been, but he had been too weak, just a pale shadow of his forefather's greatness. And it had taken him madness and death to realise it. He felt diminished when he recalled his arrogance and his presumption to be larger than life. When in truth he had been so pitiful.

Thorin clutched the mug in his hand almost bruisingly. He would _never_ forgive himself for his past deeds, he would never forget the death and ruin he had wrought – and the undeserved mercy dying had been.

Sometimes it puzzled him, that _he_ had been given the same chance Durin had been given too, but where Ori's rebirth – or the rebirth of any of the others – was a blessing, a deserved opportunity to live their lives free from the toils of the past, Thorin knew his own rebirth was a punishment. And it was only his body which cowardly rebelled, cutting away his breaths when the memories that were but a just retaliation for his misdeeds would burst to the forefront of his mind.

And he hated it as much as he hated himself.

He glared at the sunlight which slowly grew brighter, feeling all the weight of his past lifetime on his shoulders and marvelling at how his lungs felt just an inch too tight, but he wasn't losing himself in the oblivion of panic, although he felt it creep on the back of his windpipe.

Suddenly the sound of the back-door opening made him snap his head abruptly towards it. A moment later Ori's head emerged from the gap between the door and the frame.

“What are you doing outside? You'll catch your death.” she exclaimed, her cheeks reddening from the cold.

He shrugged in reply, looking down at his nearly empty mug of tea. Heaving a sigh he peeled off the wall, walking towards the door which she held open for him, her whole body shivering under the thick woollen cardigan she was wearing.

The air inside the house seemed overly warm to his numb limbs and he took his sweater off, trying to banish the foul mood which had shrouded him since he had woken up and which his own thoughts had done nothing to improve.

Ori was travelling back to Bristol today to spend the holidays with her mother, and he was not going to burden her with his maudlinness. He was going to have over a week of solitude to indulge in the self-recrimination she would no doubt argue against were she privy to it, vehemently defending him against his own accusations. And Thorin didn't have the heart to shatter her illusions, to face her with the harsh truth that he had not been the King and Dwarf she admired - nor did he deserve, in truth, the way her brown eyes looked at him, wide and bright.

But he was not as noble as he had believed himself to be a lifetime ago. And undeserving as he was, he could not – _would_ not sacrifice the bliss that having her around was. While it lasted.

He had avoided thinking of it and when a month before, Ori had told him that she didn't want what they had to disappear, he had been earnest in his reply. He _didn't_ want it to be but a brief moment of bliss to treasure in the silence of his mind.

But Harriet's words had sunk deep. Along with the knowledge that _that_ would be what he deserved.

“Are you alright?” she inquired, eyeing him with a small frown of concern.

He nodded, forcing himself to smile, but it seemed to him more of a grimace as the blades inside his chest dug into the fabric of his breaths.

“I'm fine.” he lied, striding past her and into the kitchen, putting his mug inside the sink and busying himself with the dishes that were left from the hasty breakfast they had had before Ori had run upstairs to do a last minute check on her luggage.

“Thorin?” she said, following him into the kitchen.

“Have you finished packing?” he asked, interrupting her before she inquired further on his mood.

His sister's visit had thrown them out of kilter and they had both forgotten she had planned to leave for Bristol on the 23rd, so Ori had ended hastily packing her suitcase the day before, running up and down the stairs with piles of books she took off the shelves in the living-room - only to return them to their respective spots some time later. He felt the corners of his mouth lift with a spark of genuine mirth that seemed almost surreal in the heaviness he felt within his chest, as he recalled how flustered she had been – and frustrated at being unable to bring along all the books she had wanted. And when he had asked her why she was worrying so much over a week away she had eyed him with such a murderous expression that had eerily reminisced him of her eldest brother, that Thorin found himself lifting his hands to appease her.

But the silence stretched as she wasn't answering to his question and Thorin closed the tap, turning around to look at her with a frown. Ori was wringing her hands together nervously and he felt his eyebrows furrow deeper.

“Um, about that...” she began, eyeing him shyly “There's a bit of a problem.”

“What happened?” he asked while he dried his hands on a kitchen rag.

“What happened is my mother being her usual self.” she replied tartly, shaking her head with a small grimace “I called her to tell her I would be arriving to Bristol around noon and she asked me why on Earth am I going to Bristol when she's in Sydney.”

“Sydney?” he parroted, blinking in bemusement and she sighed heavily, looking at the floor.

“Yes, apparently it _slipped her mind_ to tell me she left five days ago.” Ori replied with an arched eyebrow which lowered a moment later as she sagged her shoulders, adding “Although I suppose I should have known, she _did_ mention that she was considering a trip to Australia for the holidays.

“I just didn't think it was a set thing.” there was disappointment in her voice and he knew she had been truly looking forward to spending time with her mother whom she hadn't seen since she had officially moved to London back in September.

“You'll stay in London, then?” he asked her and there was a flicker of hope within him which made him loathe himself even more, because disappointed as she was, Thorin couldn't help feeling guiltily relieved that she might not leave him to spend his Christmas alone.

Although, he was of course planning to visit his Uncle in Worthing and Harriet would dutifully ring him like she had done every year, regardless of the corner of the world he had been in. But the notion of spending Christmas by himself appealed little to him.

And if his sister was right, he had to seize every moment.

“If you don't mind...” she replied to his question, her voice trailing as he she looked at him from under her reddish blonde fringe, slightly uncertain and he merely lifted his eyebrows.

“Why would I mind?”

She replied with a lopsided smile, before she stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips on his. His hands moved out of their own accord, embracing her lithe body and drawing her closer. The kiss deepened quickly as all his worries and his turmoil channelled in the need to drown in the sensation of her skin against his own, of her body moving under his hands, arching against him as he claimed her mouth.

Her fingers were digging in his short hair and he felt her breath hitch as he moved his hands under her sweater, feeling the thin layer of cotton of her vest under his fingers and a sliver of skin as he travelled towards the small of her back. She leaned into his touch just as she broke the kiss, breathing

“You'll... you'll be late for work.” her voice was shaky and he looked down to her flushed face, with her straight hair all in disarray.

He nearly groaned in frustration as his eyes flew to the clock hung on the wall and the hands mockingly pointing at an hour much too late to do anything but get ready for work.

  
  


The train engine rumbled in the background, the sound weaving through the chatter of the other passengers, tying it all together in a seamless mixture where Ori couldn't discern where one sound ended and the next began. She gazed at her reflection in the dark window where every now and then a light would break the inky blackness of the winter evening, fading away as the train sped through the English countryside, closing in on London. She was returning from Bristol where she had spent the weekend visiting her mother who had returned to England after New Year's Day.

She shook her head in the silent disapproval she had been feeling since her mother had thwarted her plans for the holidays. Not that she had minded, all things considered. Thorin had been happy to have her around and the last week of December had ended up being the most quiet and uneventful one they had experienced since they had ran into Balin back in October.

The search for Dwalin had been put on hiatus while they still waited for Harriet and there had been no last-minute essay writing – or suitcase packing and unpacking – to torment her usually tidy mind. She had read, written down a few of the historical events Balin had mentioned in his last e-mail – back before Thorin and her had discovered Dwalin's photo in that old issue of the Edinburgh Evening News – and she had begun a new knitting project to distract her mind from the finished striped vest she had knitted as a Christmas present for Janet – and had belatedly given it to her yesterday. But above all the pleasant activities she had indulged in, she had her spent time with Thorin. Days – and nights, her mind added as a blush crept to her cheeks – spent together, with him sharing his insights on the particular piece of history she was writing about. And she had marvelled at hearing him speak to her about the last days of Erebor's glory – of the two and a half decades he had lived under the Mountain. He was usually reluctant to speak of it, but his jaw had been squared and there had been a determination in his blue eyes that had reminded her of the King Ori had followed a lifetime ago.

He had spoken of the old Alliance between the Kingdom of Erebor and the City of Dale, of the two different Lords he had seen pay homage to his Grandfather – the old and wrinkled Lord Aranion who had died when Thorin had been barely considered old enough to attend court, and Lord Girion, tall and regal, but lacking the grimness his heir, Bard had possessed. And while Balin had explained the inner workings of the court of Erebor in much detail, hearing Thorin describe it vividly through anecdotes and memories, made her imagine the way Erebor must have been before the Dragon had come. She tried to picture the greatness and splendour of the halls, unmarred. Dáin had worked hard to rebuild Erebor to its former glory, but no matter how much they chiselled and carved, the signs of its violation could not be erased and the broken throne had stood there in all its ruin to remind them all of that fateful day - decades before Ori had been born - when fire had roared over and under the Mountain.

It had been a while since Thorin and her had worked on her research and while he didn't possess Balin's superb skills, he was a good storyteller, able to hold her attention on the tale in spite of her mind's temptation to wander off, distracted by his closeness, by the hand that toyed with the hair at the nape of her neck while he talked – the same hand that would make her shiver in anticipation as it trailed down her back while his lips captured hers.

She took a shaky breath, trying to will her brain away from  _that_ particular train of thought. It had been bad enough to listen to her mother's teasing – oh, Janet claimed she was merely curious of what her daughter had been up to, but Ori suspected Janet enjoyed making her feel uncomfortable with her invasive questions. She had endured it with her lips pressed in a thin line as she tried not to be too angry with her mother for the way she had handled the matter of her trip to Australia. 

Ori knew it was in her mother's nature to act upon “inspiration” - as she was wont to put it - and that reckless, rash decisions were normal for her, but after not having seen her for nearly three months – three  _eventful_ months, to say the least – she had been truly looking forward to spending some time with Janet, telling her about Thorin and seeing her glee because she had anticipated it long before Ori had even contemplated the notion. Not that Ori had anticipated it – she had kissed him before her mind had picked up on the fact she was attracted to him, she thought, feeling her lips curve into a smile in spite of her ungenerous thoughts she was having about her mother. 

She sighed, leaning her head back on the seat and observing the neon lights on the ceiling of the carriage. Her mother had always been a peculiar person and it hadn't been the first time Janet had done something like that. Not that it stung less, but her mother hadn't done it in malice – in truth she had been utterly surprised at Ori's ignorance. Her mother loved her and she loved her back unconditionally. But Janet's behaviour reminded her too much of Nori, with his habit to just disappear for an indefinite amount of time only to reappear as if nothing had been amiss – although Ori had always seen the glint of hesitation his green eyes which would disappear only after Ori and Dori welcomed him home. Ori  _had_ been used to inconstancy, but there had always been Dori's stalwart presence which had balanced it all – as smothering as her older brother had had the ability to be at times.

She missed them. Both of them. Ori had only Janet in this life, such as she was.

And Thorin. There was Thorin, whose role in her life had grown more and more important with each passing day. Thorin who was the moodiest person she had ever met, capable of brooding for hours only to crack a smile at something she said and the thunderstorm in his eyes would vanish, replaced by that clear look in his eyes she was unable to give a name, but which made her stomach flutter and her heart beat faster within her chest.

It was more than attraction, she knew, but she was scared to give it a name. It had been a month and a half since that evening in November when all had fallen into place and while some days it seemed like it had been forever like this, there were things like Harriet's reaction which made Ori's stomach twist. 

She had wanted to ask Thorin about it,  _had_ even done so, but he had avoided the discussion and she respected his choice even if she was curious about it. Although she was sure it couldn't be anything good... 

Suddenly her cellphone chimed inside her handbag, interrupting her in her thoughts and she frowned, fishing it out. There was an unread message from Thorin blinking on the screen and she opened it, bemused.

“ _Harriet called. Dwalin's name is James Murray. He's in London now, working for the Metropolitan Police Drugs Directorate.”_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter wasn't supposed to be so angsty and I had planned to put in it two scenes which will now end up being in the next one, but Thorin was being his stubborn, brooding self and well... I hope I didn't disappoint. :)
> 
> For those who are interested in knowing what Dwalin has been up too since he left Edinburgh: by all means check the third instalment in the Souls series [ A hole in the soul](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4474253/chapters/10169603)!
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter title taken from “Miracles” by Coldplay.


	24. Light into your darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperation, realisations and an old friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame it on the upcoming BotFA ee, blame it on my mind being unable to distance itself from the angst of writing [A hole in the soul](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4474253/chapters/10169603), I don't know...

 

The sound of his heavy sigh filled the silence of his study as Thorin flicked the mobile phone closed with irritation, glaring at the device in his hand. He had tried calling for the umpteenth time the Metropolitan Police, but unsurprisingly, he had received no information whatsoever about Dwalin - the various people who had answered his calls in past days had been as forthcoming with informations as the Edinburgh police had been. His fingers clenched around his phone and he scowled, putting it back into his pocket. It was frustrating. They were nowhere close to finding the former dwarf even if over a week had passed since Harriet had called him to tell him what she had found informations about him.

His scowl deepened as he recalled the rest of _that_ particular phone conversation. Harriet had found it necessary to lecture him about his poor life choices, and those, in his sister's opinion, unsurprisingly included Ori.

He set his lips in a grim line. Harriet's words, repeated and elaborated so that they would cut deeper – cut where fear festered under the surface – made him feel torn between the hope that blazed into life whenever Ori looked at him with those chocolate brown eyes of her - and his sister's notions would be shredded to pieces by the curve of her lips or the faint blush on her cheeks – and the dread which seemed to grow with each passing day.

But only time would tell if there was any truth to Harriet's assumptions – and he hoped they were only assumption, they _had_ to be, because he couldn't bear the thought of it all vanishing. Even if it would be only a just punishment, and a light one at that – to be left lingering with a gaping emptiness inside while she moved forward with her life. She wasn't as young as Harriet thought her to be, but neither was he. And Ori deserved to be happy. And yet, he selfishly hoped Harriet was mistaken, he _truly_ did. For him, Ori was too precious to lose.

Thorin shook his head, pushing down the tightness in his chest. His thoughts had once again become circular of late and he loathed it. He needed to focus on their search for Dwalin. He stood up from his chair and begun pacing the study's length – and if there was a relief in thinking about something other than Harriet's words, he accepted it without a backward glance.

Their search for Dwalin was an endeavour that lately filled him only with frustration, but he still needed to decide how to proceed at this juncture. They _could_ insist with the police in the hope that someone might eventually take pity on them. Or they could try calling all the James Murray listed in the phone book – although Ori had already checked and there where over a hundred people with that name in London. Not that he wasn't prepared to call each and every one of them. But it would take weeks.

He heaved a sigh, leaning his hands on the back of his chair. It would take as long as it would take. He _was_ going to find Dwalin. If nothing else then for Balin's sake.

His old friend had replied to his e-mail that morning by means of a lengthy phone call, and Thorin had heard the joy in the older man's voice as well as the tears that had no doubt been glistening in his eyes. Thorin had exhaustively informed him of their progress, telling Balin everything they knew of Dwalin in this lifetime – which was very little, but to Balin it had been everything. He had heard his voice crack and there had been a concerned feminine voice speaking in fast German – which Thorin had deduced it had belonged to Balin's wife – but Balin had appeased her, telling Thorin to not mind her.

His friend's call had left him with a lingering feeling of guilt for not having found Dwalin already – even if his oldest friend had not blamed him in the least - grateful instead that Thorin and Ori had found out Dwalin had been reborn at all. But Thorin wanted to give him that last missing piece. Balin deserved happiness more than most. He, who had been ever loyal, ever present – like Dwalin himself.

The sons of Fundin and Holda had been the pillars of his past life – along with Dís, but he  _couldn't_ think of her,  _no_ , he couldn't, that was guilt beyond his ability to endure, beyond breathlessness, beyond panic. It cut him straight to the spine and he knew no hatred he might direct against himself for the deeds he had wrought could ever match the one his former sister must had harboured. 

Might  _be_ harbouring. 

His fingers dug in the back of his chair. While he had never thought about it before, Dís might very well had been reborn too. He felt his eyes widen and his heartbeats grow fast. She might be as alive as he was and hating every inch of him and she would have every right to. He forced his windpipe to keep functioning. He had stripped her of her  _sons,_ left her utterly  _alone._ And he had promised,  _sworn,_ he would protect them, he would not see them come to harm. His lungs sealed and it was the heaviness of a tombstone pressing on his chest. And he couldn't breathe – like Fíli must had been unable to when that blade had pierced his chest. He couldn't breathe and it was only fair, he shouldn't breathe if not for the purpose of  _remembering_ the oath he had broken. And his nephews. 

The walls of his study closed in and blackness filled the edges of his sight, and he couldn't breathe. He remembered it all. He remembered it _too_ clearly - the whiteness of the snow, the dull thud of his nephew's lifeless body falling, the  _emptiness_ he had felt within in that endless moment when all sounds had been drowned and the world had stopped. And if he had been willing to die when he had charged out of the Mountain - his armour shed in a last stand against his foe - in that moment, there on the ice and snow of Ravenhill, Thorin had  _wanted_ to. Because the thought of standing before his sister and telling her he had failed her, telling Dís that Fíli had died was too much to bear.

His vision begun blurring as his heartbeats hammered in his chest like the rally of an army. He had avoided thinking for too long about his nephew –  _both_ his nephews. Kíli... Kíli had died too. And if his windpipe had been closed, now it was all but collapsing upon itself while his fingers dug almost painfully in the fabric of the chair. Kíli's death was a notion he had cravenly pushed back in the deep recesses of his mind because it was too much. It was  _all too much._

Blackness began swallowing the room and he  _couldn't_ breathe. 

At least Ori wasn't at home.

  
  


The door clicked closed and Ori felt the warmth of the hallway on her frozen cheeks. She quickly unwrapped her large woollen scarf, hanging it on the coat-rack. She put her mittens in one of the coat's pockets before she unbuttoned it and hung it under the scarf. It had been an amazing day of lessons – the essay results had come out and the paper she had been writing before Harriet's visit had been deemed excellent in spite of Ori's reservations on the matter. And Lucy and Nicole had been happy too so Ori had ended up having that drink with them she had been eschewing since October.

She smiled, taking her left boot off. It had been fun to listen to the girls' banter and watch them shamelessly flirt with more blokes than Ori considered decent - but Janet would have no doubt tutted, calling her a prude. She shook her head, taking the other boot off. She didn't really care, Nori had been much worse than her two tentative friends combined, after all.

Chuckling as she recalled the many lectures Dori had tried to impart their brother and the deaf ears they had fallen on, she put her slippers on and walked down the hallway. The light in the living room was on and she entered the room, smiling. Thorin was lying on the sofa, arms crossed under his head.

For a moment she thought him asleep, but then he turned his head in her direction and she started.

“What happened?” she asked suddenly, her cheer drowning in the worry at the sight of his pale visage and the grim set of his lips.

And the haunted look in his blue eyes.

“Nothing.” he replied with a slight frown, lifting himself in a sitting position.

She observed him motionless, trying to figure out what could be wrong. He had been his usual brooding self when she had left that morning, but he seemed drained now.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, interrupting her thread of thoughts.

“Yes.” she replied, frowning in turn at his attempt change the topic of conversation

“You did get my text, didn't you?” she asked with a tinge of concern and he nodded, forcing out a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Ori's feet finally resolved to move from where she had stopped. In a few steps she reached him and, kicking out the slippers, she climbed onto the sofa, kneeling so she could be eye-level with Thorin.

“Are you sure you're all right?” she asked him, trying to figure out what was wrong, but his expression was unreadable.

“I'm fine.” he told her, not looking at her and she recognised the lie for what it was. And yet, Ori hesitated, something in his posture making her loath to press him.

With a lopsided smile she cupped his cheek, turning his head until he was facing her. There was a raw tiredness in his blue eyes she had seen before and it made her stomach clench. It was the look he had worn when he had been told of Kíli's death. She felt a lump of sadness grow within her throat as she wondered what could have made him grieve so. Had he recalled something he had forgotten? Had he learned something new? Had something _happened_? _Did it even matter?_

Whatever the reason, whatever it was that was troubling him, she wanted it gone. Thorin deserved happiness, joy. But moreover he deserved _peace._ Ori caressed his cheek, leaning her forehead onto his and she felt him exhale a heavy breath. His arms found their way to her back holding her firmly but with an underlying gentleness that made her own arms follow cue.

Ori felt her heart lodge itself on the forefront of her chest, beating loudly just as its surface cracked lightly under the weight of all that burdened him in his silence, of all he kept bottled up and which tortured him so. She couldn't stand the feeling of his shoulders slumped when they should be squared, of his hands clutching the fabric of her sweater ever so slightly. It was all so wrong, this _vulnerability_ in the blurred depth of his blue eyes _._ It was so wrong. They stood like that, motionless, for the longest time, until his lids slowly dropped.

And Ori leaned forward, placing the lightest of kisses on his lips. She lingered for a moment, his lips soft under hers and his beard scratching her skin lightly, then his hands pulled her closer and suddenly he was capturing her lips. Her head tilted as the kiss deepened and he leaned forward. And even if he hadn't talked to her, even if he would never tell her what had troubled him so, she could feel it seep out of his breaths, she could feel it in his touches, in the urgency that built up with every inch of space that was being claimed by him until she was lying back on the sofa, her limbs tangled with his and the weigh of his strong body on top of her.

There was a desperation that made her heart ache and she found herself mirroring his urgency, wanting to comfort but not knowing how, wanting to free him from whatever plagued him, but helpless against his silence. And it made her hands claw at the back of his shirt, pulling and tugging until she reached skin. It made her legs lock behind his knees as she brought him closer, as she drowned herself in the need to do something, anything to banish this darkness.

  
  


The blaring of Thorin's alarm clock made her jolt awake and she reached over his surprisingly still slumbering form to turn the infernal device off. He muttered something in his sleep but didn't awake and Ori leaned back on the pillow, knowing she had at least an hour before she had to get out of the warmth of their bed.

The street-light illuminated their covers of their bed in a faint yellow and she curled on her side close to Thorin, listening to the rise and fall of his chest. She still didn't know what had happened the night before. Whatever it had been it had left Thorin looking empty and Ori's heart had ached at how helpless she had felt – _still_ felt.

She had come to realise in the past year that some things burdened Thorin worse than others and Ori had always tried to to steer him away from his maudlin moods – generally succeeding in the endeavour. But yesterday she had been helpless. Yesterday, the only thing she had been able to do had been to partake in Thorin's desperation. And it was not right.

Ori caressed his cheek, lightly running her fingers through his short-cropped hair. She tried to understand him – and his changes of mood - but it was difficult with a knowledge so fragmented. Ever since the beginning of their tentative friendship they had avoided the taboo topics and Ori didn't regret that choice - she respected his silence the same way he respected hers. But she wished she could know how to help him. How to make things better.

_Could_ she make things better? Or it was Thorin alone that had to face his own demons? But surely there must be something she could do, anything to make it easier.  _To make him smile._

But there was little she could do that she wasn't already doing. And the only thing she could think of would be managing to find Dwalin. It was something that would surely give Thorin a measure of happiness, but she was already aiding him in the search. And so far they kept reaching dead ends on every corner. They even knew where Dwalin – James Murray – worked and yet it didn't help. 

What could they do? What could  _she_ do? The impasse they had reached reminded her somewhat of that week back at the beginning of August when Thorin's mobile phone had been dead – smashed in the car accident, but she hadn't known back then, and it still made her stomach clench at the thought of how  _horribly_ it could have ended – and she had been unable to reach him, 

She pressed a butterfly kiss on Thorin's bare shoulder and he stirred lightly, but his eyes remained closed. It was a testament to how utterly exhausted he was if he was still asleep. Only once since she had moved to London had Thorin overslept – and that had been the morning after their first proper kiss.

Yes the Dwalin situation reminded her of the past summer, but unlike then she had no easy solution – she couldn't just appear on Dwalin's doorstep like she had done with Thorin, because she simply  _didn't know_ where he lived. 

She sighed, pressing herself closer to Thorin and she felt his arm tighten around her midsection. His eyelids fluttered open a moment later, interrupting her thoughts.

“Morning.” he croaked, furrowing his brow lightly “Why are you awake?”

“ _You_ have set the alarm before the crack of dawn.” she replied, smiling at him in spite of all the heavy thoughts she had been having only moments before.

“I didn't hear it?” he inquired, bemused and she shook her head.

“I'm sorry...” he told her contritely, but she cut off the rest of his apology with a kiss.

“I don't mind.” she told him, before adding “As long as you don't expect me to actually _get up_ at this ungodly hour that is.”

He huffed a chuckle and she felt the knot that had been tight within her chest unravel, if only a bit.

“Good.” she said, snuggling her head back into the crook of his neck.

“I should get up, though.” he told her after a moment that seemed far too short for her liking and Ori felt herself pout.

“No you don't.” she deadpanned and she saw his eyebrow arch in the faint light, the corners of his lips slightly tugged upwards.

“Fine, have it your way.” he replied, shaking his head in mock resignation, but she saw the smile that blossomed on his lips and it made her heart flutter within her chest. _This_ was right, even if it only lasted for the briefest while.

  
  


Several hours later Ori was walking out of the tube station, her mind still mulling on Thorin and his moods, while she hurried her steps so she wouldn't be late for her lessons. Her thoughts pulled her towards their search for Dwalin and Ori had just began walking down the pavement, pushing her way through the throng of people when suddenly – and belatedly - realisation struck her.

She stopped in the middle of the street, feeling her eyes widen. _How hadn't they thought about it earlier?_ Ori stood nearly transfixed for the longest moment, looking at the people passing by without really seeing them.

And then, in a spur of moment decision, she turned on her spot and nearly ran down the stairs of the station, sparing only a fleeting thought to the lessons she would miss - guilt could wait. She felt herself grin in anticipation.

It wouldn't necessarily work, chances were she would be dismissed the same way Thorin had been over the phone, but it was worth a try.

  
  


Dwalin had just taken a sip of his scorchingly hot black coffee, leaning against the wall when he heard MacKenzie call his name and he turned in her direction, scowling at the fellow officer. The plump woman was striding through the hallway in his direction, her expression serious as always.

“Can't even have a cup of coffee now?” he asked gruffly and the red-head just levelled him an unimpressed look.

“You drink too much coffee anyway.” she replied dryly in the thick Scottish accent she hadn't lost after a decade of living in the capital “Isn't good for yer blood pressure.”

“I didn't realise we were married” he rebutted and she smirked.

“Flatter yerself Murray, but no one in their right state of mind would want to have a scowling arse such as you for a husband.” she replied wryly, then she added with a smug grin “Come to think of it, what is that saint of a partner of yers still doing with you?”

“Any particular reason for you torment me, MacKenzie?” he asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest, but feeling no real irritation - he had known the Scotswoman since he had moved from Edinburgh and over the years of working together in the force they had developed a tentative acquaintance that was almost a friendship of sorts, their common Scottish origins going a long way into overcoming their respective abrasive personalities.

“Aye, I actually came to tell you someone's here to see you.” she told him and he felt his eyebrow rise in surprise.

“Lass claims to be an old friend.” MacKenzie continued, and he found himself frowning “Not our usual lot, any way, might be genuine.”

“Who is it?” he asked, understanding her meaning and MacKenzie replied

“Anne Platt is the name.” then she added “Young, short, coppery blonde with a pair of doe eyes that managed to convince Abbot to send me to find you...”

The name didn't ring any bell, but Dwalin felt curiosity prickle him. He gulped down the coffee and putting the empty cup down he nodded.

MacKenzie trailed behind him as he walked through the station. He reached the front desk and the older officer sitting there nodded, pointing his balding head in the direction of the seats which lined the wall of the entranceway. There, sitting wrapped in a large woollen scarf that swallowed her whole was a short lass, light red-blond hair pulled in a ponytail and nose deeply buried in a thick book.

And Dwalin stopped in the middle of the room, blinking twice to make sure his eyes weren't deceiving him.

“Ori?” he exclaimed and the lass' hair bobbed as she snapped her head up, wide-eyed with a grin plastered on her freckled face.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Fade Into You” by Mazzy Star.


	25. Oh the iron will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The present, the past and the unknown.

 

There was a moment of breathless silence before Dwalin exclaimed

“By my beard, _lass_!” and Ori grinned, the plastic chair creaking under her when she practically jumped to her feet, taking a step towards Dwalin who was shaking his head as if he couldn't quite believe she was there - and Ori could scarcely believe it herself, after weeks of futile search, days of Thorin calling and trying to get in touch with their former companion, to think it had been enough to come to the station and ask...

Dwalin strode toward her and all of a sudden she was being engulfed in a bone-crushing hug. Her own arms rose to hug him back. She was so happy to have finally managed to find him. She could already picture the smile forming on Thorin's lips. They had Dwalin back.

“How did you get here?” he asked her when they drew apart.

His lips were pulled in a wide smile, framed by his carefully trimmed beard. It was such a contrast with the coarse net of brown hair that he had sported in his past life, gruff in appearance like he had been within - and yet Ori had always suspected there had been, and likely still was, a gentleness to him, under all those layers of scowling and flexed muscles. There was some in his eyes at that very moment and it made her smile broaden.

“It's a long story.” she replied, and made to elaborate further but Dwalin's colleagues were eyeing them with barely concealed curiosity and Dwalin inclined his head in the direction of the door giving her a pointed look.

Nodding, she picked up her discarded belongings and followed him out of the station. The air outside was chilly and she put on her mittens to shield her hands from the cold. Dwalin seemed unperturbed in just his uniform and she felt a giggle bubble in her throat. Some things never changed

“We found your photo in a old newspaper.” Ori told him “We've been looking for you for weeks.”

Then noticing his slight frown of confusion she added

“Thorin and I.”

Dwalin's eyes grew wide.

“ _Thorin_ is back too?” he asked, hopeful disbelief dripping from every syllable and Ori flashed him a smile, nodding.

“Yes, he is.” she replied, watching his usually scowling visage crack into a wide grin.

There was a shade of joy in his eyes that reminded her how close Thorin and Dwalin had been - how important had their friendship been to them. She had well believed it when Thorin had once told her Dwalin and him had been almost like brothers.

Her eyes widened and she suddenly said

“Balin's back too.” cursing herself for having almost forgotten about it in the excitement of the moment.

“Balin?” he breathed, his voice nearly cracking “My _brother_...”

She saw him lean back on the wall, his hands resting on his thighs while he shook his head, looking at her with his eyes glazed over. He didn't say anything for the longest time and they just stood there, both silent in the noise of the traffic and the people passing by. Ori’s fingers began fidgeting with the hem of her mittens while she eyed Dwalin, wondering what was passing through his mind.

“Balin is here.” Dwalin said at last, looking at her with an unreadable look in his pale eyes.

“Yes, I mean, no.” she replied “He lives in Germany.”

And then she threw herself into a lengthy exposition of everything she knew about the erstwhile advisor, his current life, his family, how Balin had encountered Bilbo, the research on reincarnation. And Dwalin listened to her, an array of emotions flickering in his moonstone eyes and she couldn't quite imagine how it must be for him to know his brother was back – but she wished she did, she wished it so badly...

“You should have seen Thorin's face when we ran into Balin.” she said, shaking herself from her train of thoughts and recalling the lecture Thorin and her had gone to listen to, and their surprise at realising Prof. Weber was none other than their old companion.

“Thorin's here, yes? In London?” Dwalin suddenly asked, interrupting her monologue and Ori gave him a nod.

“Yes, we live in Harrow.” she replied and then inhaled sharply, exclaiming “Oh, I probably should tell him we've managed to find you!”

She saw Dwalin nod while she fumbled through her bag, looking for her mobile phone. Her fingers closed on the device and she took it out of her messenger bag. Ori was about to dial his number when a light cough coming from the direction of the door made her stop and she turned her head. The woman who had accompanied Dwalin was standing a couple of feet away from them, eyeing Dwalin with a slightly apologetic look.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, Murray.” she told him in a thick accent. “Bateman's looking for you.”

Dwalin scowled but nodded nonetheless. Then he turned his attention back to Ori.

“I have to go.” he said “How about we finish this conversation later?”

“Absolutely.” she nodded, smiling again.

 

The computer buzzed in the background of his silent office and Thorin stared at the screen of his computer with a scowl, struggling to hold onto his slipping concentration. Faintly he could hear the sound of Roberts’ voice talking on the phone and he hoped whoever was calling had no need to speak to him. He set his lips in a thin line and went to reread the figures printed on the documents littering his desk, trying to make some sense of them in spite of his mind’s refusal to collaborate. There was a weariness which had set itself onto his shoulders the night before and refused to leave. And Thorin felt as if all is strength – all his fight – had been drained out of him and he was nothing but the dim flicker of a torch in the gale.

He took a sip of his coffee, grimacing - it had grown cold – before he set the mug down. The day before had been too much perhaps. It had been a while since his last episode of panic, and even longer since he had last failed to fight it. Thorin knew he should have struggled against it. If nothing for the sake of Ori's concern, which had been etched onto her freckled face upon her return home.

Thorin had wanted to banish it, but he had been stripped bare of any willpower, empty like a piece of discarded armour. And all he had been able to do had been staring at those brown eyes which were made for smiles and wryness, for elation – and pull her with him into the void. Ori had followed him, her kisses, her touches growing as desperate as his own had been. And it wasn't right. It wasn't her darkness to carry. Her _madness._ She deserved better, far better than him. But he was selfish, and he would stay such. Thorin would not relinquish this stolen moments, no matter the price. He would _not._ Even if he knew it was unfair to burden her with his guilt, with the hopelessness that festered in the wake of his memories, of their _clarity._

Thorin bowed his head, staring at the grain of the desk. He knew he should have resisted, should have fought his own mind in the first place, like he had often done. But a part of him had refused to. Because while no amount of _remembering_ would be enough to atone for his past wrongs, it was only just to suffer for them.

He had led his nephews to their untimely death.

His jaw clenched. It wasn't the Quest in itself – and his insistence that the boys come along – nor his failure in killing the Pale Orc when he had had the chance, there on the slippery slopes of the Dimrill Dale, it wasn't that which fed his guilt. No. It was the hopeless charge into battle - _will you follow me? -_ it was rallying his Company without the hope of survival. It was keeping his nephews by his side even when he knew he was walking to his death.

He had charged into battle with the fury of the last blazing fire, bright before the ashes lay down cold, feeling like one of the warriors of old when they had joined the fray. Fighting shoulder to shoulder with his kin, with his Company, with his family, hacking through the ranks of orcs with a war-cry on his lips and death on his mind. They had been invincible in their desperation, strong like the stone of which they had been hewn from and ruthless in their last stand.

Thorin's fingers gripped the edge of the desk. His chest tightened, but he wouldn't. No, he _would not_ panic. He _had_ to remember. And regret. Thorin was not allowed – he would not allow himself – to eschew the memory of how he had charged out of the Mountain armourless - how _they_ had done the same - and Thorin had led them - _one last time –_ not thinking, not once, to try and spare his sister-sons, ordering them to remain in the Mountain, or leaving them fighting amongst the other dwarves. No, he had brought them along with him on Ravenhill.

He might as well have wielded the blade.

His heart pounded in his ribcage and he forced himself to breathe. Their blood was on his hands. And he would never forgive himself.

Their faces flickered in his mind's eye and it was not the lifeless visage of Fíli sprawled on the snow, nor the desperation breaking in Kíli's dark eyes. No, it was them smiling, mischief mirrored in both their expressions, in the dimples on Fíli's cheeks, in the wide grin of Kíli's face. And it cut deep, deeper than any pain. Remembering them the way they had been before, small dwarflings with peach fuzz on their cheeks or young dwarrows eager to prove themselves, to prove _him_ they were good enough. They had been so full of life, bursting with it at their seams. And he had taken it away from them. He had...

The sharp ringing of his mobile phone made him start. It scraped on the desk's surface as it vibrated and Thorin felt his heartbeats loudly echo in his ears while he rummaged through the paperwork piled atop his desk, looking for his phone. When he finally managed to fish it out he had calmed enough to be able to answer the call - whomever it was that called him with such insistence.

He looked at the screen and felt his eyebrows shoot up, before furrowing into a frown. Ori. He flicked the phone open.

“Ori?” he said in lieu of a greeting, getting up from his chair “Is everything alright?”

His voice was flat, but his heartbeats resumed their previous pace. Perhaps he had not calmed, after all, But she never called him, not unless it was urgent and at this hour she was supposed to be at her lessons...

“ _What? No, don't worry.”_ she replied from the other end of the line. He could hear the sound of traffic in the background and his frown deepened.

“ _I was, well... Are you free after work?”_ she inquired, fumbling with her words.

“Am I... Yes, I'm free.” he answered “Why are you...”

“ _Excellent!”_ she exclaimed, interrupting him just as he was about to ask her why she was calling him _“Dwalin wants to meet with us._ _G_ _rab a drink, he said.”_

He blinked.

“ _Thorin? Are you still there?”_

“Dwalin?” he asked slowly, trying to make sense of her words while his feet began moving, pacing across the length of his office.

“ _Yes!”_ she replied happily, her voice bubbling with excitement. _“I went to the police station where he works and asked if I could talk to him, so someone went to fetch him. He was really happy to see me. And to hear you and Balin are back too.”_

“You found Dwalin and we are meeting him today?” he asked slowly, not quite sure if he was willing to believe all the weeks of searching had finally yielded a result.

It seemed nearly surreal, but Ori replied

“ _Yes.”_ in a confident tone.

And he could do nothing but blink again.

 

Thorin ascended the stairs of the tube station and his eyes fell on Ori who was waiting for him just outside, leaning against a wall with a book balanced in one of her hands while she used the other to turn the pages. Every now and then she would shuffle her feet and Thorin wondered how long she had been standing there in the cold, reading under the light of a street-lamp. He had nearly reached her when Ori lifted her head, smiling brightly at him.

“Hi.” she said, closing the book and standing on her tiptoes to press a kiss on his lips.

Her skin was cold and his arms moved to her back, pulling her in an embrace. Ori melted against him and he couldn't help the pace of his heartbeats and they hammered within his chest. He smiled, for a moment not feeling the leftover tension from the previous day which had mingled with the anticipation of meeting his old friend - and Thorin struggled to believe they would be meeting with him soon, that Dwalin was really back, it was almost too surreal to believe it.

He buried his face in her hair, smelling the winter air that had tangled in her coppery blond locks. Ori sighed contentedly and Thorin didn't want to think about how precarious all this was. How _temporary_. All he wanted to do was marvel at how perfectly she fit in his arms, and forget the world. Forget the loud noise of the traffic around them, of the people milling about.

He wanted this moment never to end.

But it would, like everything. He gripped her tighter, trying not to think about how Harriet was right – she had been so seldom wrong, even if he would never admit it to her, and he _did_ remember the disastrous way in which her first marriage had ended – and failing. He did not _want_ her to be right, he did not, but at the same time he could not fool himself. No matter how much he wished for it.

“Thorin?” she inquired, feeling him tense “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine.” he replied flatly, but his eyes said otherwise and Ori felt herself frown.

She wondered if he was nervous about meeting Dwalin. It was possible, even if Ori had thought he would be elated at the prospect – after all the struggle he had went through to find him, not the least having to deal with his sister which Ori knew was not easy for him. And in hindsight she could only imagine how hard it had been for Thorin to swallow his pride and ask Harriet for her help. But his reaction was only natural, she supposed. He had brooded all the same when they had been about to meet Bilbo. Ori wasn't sure _what_ exactly had troubled him, but she was certain there had been a heavy measure of guilt somewhere in it, if the way he usually spoke of his past life was any indication. Guilt. She wondered if it was that which made his arms grip her with such grim tension while he eyed her with an inscrutable expression in his eyes.

Ori felt her stomach tie itself into a knot. She wished she could ease his burden – or vanish his toils altogether – but there was an impenetrable wall of thick stone shielding his thoughts from her. She had been constantly chipping at it, bit by bit, ever since their fledgling friendship had had them spend hours to no end texting one another, and the closer they had gotten the more he had revealed of himself, but never his pain. Even when she knew full well he did suffer, when she perceived the guilt that gnawed at him, blatant in his eyes. And the night before had been proof enough that there was much on his mind, much she could not banish.

No matter how hard she tried. She lifted a hand to cup his cheek and he closed his eyes, bowing his head into a kiss. It dragged on, even if it was just a pressing of lips against lips. But Ori tried to convey all which she couldn't put into words, all which he wouldn't wish to hear. Which he denied himself. She needed him to know he was not alone. Not if she could help it.

When they drew apart he pressed his forehead against hers, much like they had done the night before and Ori sighed. Time trickled by with the noise of the city surrounding them until they drew apart and Thorin asked

“Shall we?”

“Yes,” she replied, reluctantly breaking the embrace. “Dwalin will be waiting for us.”

“Lead the way, then.” he said with a small smile.

 

She pushed the pub's door open and entered, the warmth hitting her suddenly. Ori's eyes scanned the halfway filled room, looking for Dwalin’s bald head, while she fumbled with her large scarf, trying to unwrap it. It took her a moment for her eyes to lock on Dwalin and she nudged Thorin gently pointing in the direction of the counter. Dwalin was sitting on a bar-stool, leaning his elbows on the counter and nursing a large glass of beer with a scowl on his bearded face. Thorin had stopped by her side, looking at the man in uniform with a look between wistfulness and joy. He eyed Dwalin for the longest time before he squared his shoulders and made his way towards the counter.

“What happened to your beard?” he barked at Dwalin, making the other man's head whip in their direction, grey eyes wide and a large grin pulling at his lips.

“You're one to speak.” Dwalin spat back, rising from his stool to all his height. “Where did all your hair disappear?”

They both stood, staring at the other for the longest moment, before they pulled each other in an embrace so tight it made Ori wince at the sight. She looked at them, feeling happy to see the tension leave Thorin’s shoulders and happier still for the smile curving his lips.

The two men broke apart, grins mirrored on both their faces.

“I can’t believe it Thorin.” Dwalin exclaimed, shaking his head and motioning them to sit in an empty booth nearby.

Ori flashed him a smile, greeting him before she sat down and eyeing Thorin who was still grinning with a lightness in his gaze that made her stomach flutter. His eyes locked on hers before sitting down next to her and there was a twinkle in those blue orbs that made her heart flutter.

They ordered their drinks a moment later and once the waiter had placed their glasses on the table Dwalin broke the comfortable silence which had fallen over them.

“Ori says you saw me in a newspaper.” he said and Thorin nodded, explaining the other man how they had accidentally noticed him in an old issue of the Edinburgh Evening News, the weeks of futile search and how at last Thorin’s sister had managed to find him - in a manner of speaking.

She listened to his explanation, smiling. This was the dwarf Ori had admired in her past life, capable of holding both her and Dwalin captive with his words, with his tone, with the posture of his shoulders and the look in his eyes. She had seen glimpses of it in the past year, moments when he had acted like the King he had once been - but there, in the small pub Dwalin had chosen to meet them, Ori saw Thorin as his true self once again. Like he had been before the Quest had began, before all the darkness had torn him - torn them all, leaving them with little more than bare stubborn loyalty and the iron will to see their Quest finished.

Dwalin's presence had unearthed a side of Thorin that made her heart skip a beat. Because this was her King, the erstwhile dwarf who had led them through thick and thin across half of Middle Earth. But at the same time he was Thorin, he was the man who smiled at her from the depth of his cornflower eyes and sometimes held her as if he feared she would disappear, who counted the freckles on her arms while his voice carried her through his memories, through the moments of joy and mischief and the fondest remembrances.

When Thorin's voice trailed to a stop Dwalin shook his head, taking a large gulp of his beer. He told them how he had moved from Edinburgh to London seven years before to work for the Metropolitan Police. His usual lack of eloquence made the exposition brief, but Ori noted that throughout all the encounter Dwalin – just like Balin – had not seemed overly shocked to see them here. Surprised, yes, but not shocked.

“Dwalin is there anyone else?” Ori asked him and Thorin shot her a confused look “Reborn, I mean. You don't seem very unsettled at seeing us back.”

“Ori is right.” Thorin said, narrowing his eyes slightly “She was far more shocked when we ran into each other.”

“You mean when you followed me through half of Cathays?” she asked playfully, remembering their first encounter in this life and he gave her a small sheepish smile.

“Do you have any idea what a scare you gave me?” she admitted “I was about to knock you out in that alley before I saw you were you.”

“I doubt you could knock me out.” he observed sceptically, cocking an eyebrow as if the idea was preposterous.

“I had the factor of surprise on my side.” she rebutted indignantly, feeling slightly offended by his dismissal of her skills “I'll have you know I took a self-defence course during Sixth form. Mum and I didn't live in the nicest part of Bristol back then, so it came in handy.”

Her tone had a bite in it and Thorin raised his hands to appease her, eyes dancing and she pouted.

“I guess we'll never find out.” he replied smirking at her reaction and she shot him a mock glare before bowing her head and chuckling.

“Hopefully not.” she replied with a grin.

Her eyes fell suddenly on Dwalin who was silently observing their exchange with a frown on his forehead. There was a sobering expression in his light eyes and Thorin's gaze followed hers a moment later, his features returning to their usual stoicism. Dwalin seemed to be deliberating on something and Ori felt curiosity prickle her mind.

“There is someone else too.” he told them at last and Thorin eyed her with a look that mirrored the same mixture of surprise and hope she was feeling.

Someone else was back. Ori felt her heart beat loudly in her chest. _Who could it be?_

Dwalin grabbed his glass and downed the whole thing, before getting up to his feet.

“Come with me.”

Thorin's eyebrows knitted, but he rose from his seat and she followed suit.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I didn't disappoint. Readers of [A hole in the soul](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4474253/chapters/10169603) already know who we are meeting in the next chapter... :P
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter title taken from “Iron Hand” by Dire Straits.


	26. In the pale gloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the delay, but the Secret Lesbians Week had come up and I was busy writing a femslash Kiliel which had (unsurprisingly) turned out multichapter.  
> On Souls related news I'm happy to announce that the fourth instalment of the series is up, so do check [Soul's edge](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4772201/chapters/10914725)! I leave you now to Thorin and Ori. Enjoy!

 

The footsteps echoed loudly in the deserted hallway, resonating off the bare yellow walls. It was warmer than outside and the faint smell of dampness filled the stairway. Thorin ascended the stairs, watching the paint begin to peel in several spots, dark smudges of soles marring the bottom of the walls. The building Dwalin had led them too wasn't shabby, but there was an air of neglect in the overall appearance and he caught Ori looking at their surroundings with a small frown on disapproval that made him huff a light chuckle. She looked at him with her eyebrows slightly raised and he shook his head, a smile still curving his lips before he turned his eyes back on Dwalin's jacket-clad back.

He still struggled to believe they were there, following Dwalin up yet another flight of stairs - about to meet another one of their former kin - when just that morning the thought of finding his old friend had been frustratingly impossible and had added heavily to the general maudlinness which gripped him strongly of late. It was much too surreal to be there, to think he had been sitting in a pub not long before talking to him, bantering with Ori. And now they were on the move again, about to reacquaintance themselves with someone else - with another face from their past - and Thorin struggled to make sense of the conflicting thoughts within his mind. Of the apprehension he felt.

Dwalin had refused to tell them anything about whomever they were about to meet and no amount of Ori's subtle inquiring and his own not so subtle glaring had made the burly man speak. He had merely motioned them to follow him out of the pub and Thorin had cast a bemused look in Ori direction before grabbing his coat and striding out into the cold evening.

And now they were here, standing on a dimly lit landing while Dwalin rummaged through his pockets looking for his keys. Ori came to stand by his side, looking at the door ahead with a mixture of curiosity and fear in her large eyes which mirrored his very own. There was a subtle tinge of dread pooling in his gut and he strove to push it down while his mind explored all the possible faces the russet door ahead could hide. Friends? Acquaintances? _Family_? His heart sped up in spite of his resolution to maintain his calm. What it if was one of his nephews? Or his father?

His _sister_?

The thought alone made his swallow hardly, feeling his mouth suddenly parched. If Dís was there, if his sister was a few paces away from him... He shook his head. He didn't know if he could bear it. To see the hatred in her eyes. Was that why Dwalin had not said anything? Was it because he feared how Thorin would react?

And yet Thorin couldn't imagine Dís ever wanting to meet him. Him who had robbed her of the last people she had been left with. Of her sons.

Dís who had lost her home, her brother, her father and mother – much like himself, much like many, Dwalin included – but who had also been robbed of her husband and, before the end, even of her closest friend – the dwarrowdam who had been with her since the two of them had been old enough to walk.

Thorin could still clearly remember them, small dwarflings, one raven-haired like most of his kin, with a pair of sharp pale eyes which could pierce stone, and the other with golden ringlets that bobbed as the two girls played on the thick fur carpet of the parlour with their carved dolls and stuffed beasts. The same way he could picture with terrible clarity the heart-wrenching way Dís had wailed, crumpling in his arms like a discarded robe when Thorin had come to tell her a cave-in in the deeper sections of their Halls had taken Idun's life.

It had been ten years before the Quest. Before he had taken away everything from his sister.

“Are you alright?” Ori inquired softly and Thorin hadn't even realised his lungs had not been working until he inhaled deeply, nodding sharply because he didn't trust his voice.

Dwalin chose that moment to push the apartment door open, motioning them to come inside. Ori squeezed his hand briefly, worrying her lip slightly before she followed Dwalin's lead.

Thorin stood a there a moment longer, steeling himself for whatever may await him across that threshold. It could be Dís, he knew. But it could also be anyone else. One of Ori's brothers, one of the sons of Gróin. Anyone. It could be anyone.

Heaving a sigh he squared his shoulders. And he stepped into the narrow hallway of the apartment, closing the door behind him. Thorin barely had the time to register the navy-blue jacket which hung from the coat-rack before a barrage of barks resounded in the apartment, followed by the appearance of a very excited black dog. It waggled its tail, trying to jump on Dwalin and eyeing both Ori and him with obvious curiosity.

“Easy there, lass.” Dwalin ordered the dog who immediately ceased her onslaught.

She still whipped her tail back and forth in barely suppressed elation and Thorin eyed her. There was something endearing about the dog's large eyes and drop ears, which made him nearly smile, easing the tension that had been pooling within him and replacing it with a warm calm that made him glance at Ori.

But she wasn't looking at the dog.

Her eyes were fixed on the doorway ahead and Thorin followed her gaze. And felt his breaths suddenly slammed out of his chest with unforeseen force. His head shook of its own accord while his eyes grew impossibly wide as they gazed upon the tall thin figure which had appeared in the door-frame.

_It couldn't be._

And yet it was. Blond messy hair sticking out in disarray. An equally fair beard framing a mouth which was gaping in an utter bewilderment. And blue eyes. Deep blue familiar eyes.

Impossibly alive.

“Thorin?” the man croaked - his _brother_ croaked - frozen on the spot, and Thorin could not help but stare at him, speechless while their eyes locked.

Alive.

He was _alive_ , a light dancing in his gaze and emotions flickering within the frozen chaos of the moment, and Thorin couldn't believe it. Because it was impossible. It was utterly impossible. His head kept shaking while his chest painfully filled with air, and he couldn't, he _couldn't_ believe it. He couldn't believe he was truly standing before his living, _breathing_ brother.

And yet _Frerin_ was here, right in front him. His brother, his precious little brother, looking at him with the same disbelief which gripped his windpipe and made his heartbeats pound within his skull

“ _Nadadith._ ” he breathed, with a choked voice while his muscles moved of their own accord.

He didn't even realise what he was doing until he found himself pulling Frerin in a bone-crushing embrace which held nearly two centuries of longing and bitter, unforgiven regrets. Two centuries of pain, so much pain and the wish he could have been able to _do_ something, to spare his brother the horrible fate which had awaited him. Anything, just to be able to bring back life in his dead eyes, empty. And yet as Frerin's arms embraced him back, thin, but filled with strength, with the same desperation to never let go, all Thorin mind was able to process was that Frerin was _back_. His brother was back.

_He couldn't believe it._

His brother was back.

Ori observed them unable to tear her gaze from the sight of Thorin and his brother holding each other with such a fierceness, such a desperate affection in their embrace it made Ori suddenly realised the reason for Thorin's reluctance to speak about his younger sibling. It made her realise the terrible ache with which Thorin had missed him.

There were tears glistening as they trailed down Thorin's cheeks only to disappear in his beard and her heart lurched painfully against her breast. Sighing loudly, Ori dabbed at the corners of her eyes with the back of her still mitten-clad hand while she cast a glance in Dwalin's direction. He was wearing an unreadable expression, but the sheen of emotion in his pale eyes was clear.

Slowly, Thorin and his brother drew apart, gazing at one another with mirror expressions of incredulity. And Ori was startled at the sight of how alike they were in their appearance.

Save from the golden hue of Frerin's hair and beard, and the slightly narrower build, the blond man was a mirror image of his brother. The same sharp-edged nose and chin, the same eyes - startlingly blue and expressive – the same long fingered hands, even if Frerin's seemed lither, bonier. And his voice, eerily alike Thorin's, but for the slightly higher pitch. Ori could have very well been oblivious of Frerin's existence and she still couldn't have mistaken him for anything other than Thorin's sibling.

The two men kept staring at each other for the longest time, still shaking their head in disbelief. Then the blond man turned his eyes in Dwalin's direction

“Why didn't you tell me?” he breathed, eyes still wide and Dwalin shrugged,

“I found out this morning.” he grumbled sheepishly casting a glance in her direction and Frerin's eyes followed his gaze in surprise, not having noticed her until then.

“Hi.” she said timidly, suddenly feeling very self-conscious and looking in Thorin's direction for support, but he was observing his brother in a daze, oblivious to the world and she couldn't blame him.

“This is Ori.” Dwalin said simply in his rough voice “Ori, this is Frerin.”

“The scribe?” Frerin suddenly exclaimed in bemusement, eyeing her with his blond eyebrow knitted.

“Pleased to meet you” she replied politely, fidgeting with her hands and the open look in the man's azure eyes made her add wryly “Although it seems you already know more of me than I of you.”

“Dwalin told me much about your Quest.” he explained with a small smile huffing a warm chuckle that seemed to shake them all off their respective musings.

  


An hour later they were sitting in the living-room of the apartment Ori was certain Dwalin and Frerin shared – the former had had keys and they both played the role of the host, not to mention the way the dog moved back and forth between the two men, obviously used to both of them. No, she had no doubt they both lived there. She was, however, still trying to understand the nature of their relationship. They seemed very comfortable around each other – perhaps much too comfortable to be friends. But Ori didn't want to jump to conclusions, and in the end it was just her curiosity,a curiosity her inner Dori scolded her for it - whatever their relationship it was their business. Not that it wouldn't make Ori happy to know Mister Dwalin had found someone. She had always thought it sad that such an honourable dwarf, with such a gentle heart underneath all the armour and ink, should be unloved.

If anyone deserved happiness it was him, she thought. The two of them, Dwalin and Frerin were sitting in their respective armchairs, and Ori observed them, the glances they would steal every now and then, the speechless understanding and she wondered, a part of her hoping her intuition was right.

She smiled above the tea-cup she cradled in her hands while she listened to Dwalin and Thorin recount anecdotes from the lighter moments of their shared youth with matching grins on their faces. It had begun with Thorin telling Dwalin and Frerin about the way Ori and him had met Balin and Bilbo, going in even greater detail than she had had the chance to go about Dwalin's brother and the life he had built himself in Essen. And somehow from Balin and his three children the conversation had veered towards the past, prompted by Dwalin's

“Do you remember the time Balin chased me down through the whole camp?” which had then in turn become a full recounting of decades of life on the road and the early days of the settlement in the Blue Mountains.

Ori had somehow resisted the urge to take her notepad out to scribble down the bits and pieces of precious historical information they were inadvertently giving her - but after months of living with Thorin she had lost that habit, choosing to commit the details to memory rather than spending most of her days taking notes. After all she knew she could always ask him for whatever information she may had forgotten. And if Ori enjoyed listening to Thorin's voice when he told her his memories, it had nothing to do with her reticence at taking notes. Or so she told herself, taking a sip of her already cold tea.

She focused back on the conversation at hand, noticing the lightness of Thorin's whole demeanour while he spoke to his old friend. It made her heart swell warmly within her chest to see him almost content. There was still a shade of something which lingered in the corner of his gaze, a shade of grief and something much akin to fear. But Ori had not forgotten the troubled expression he had worn the night before, the defeat in his eyes. To see him smile - grin - was a blessing she had not truly hoped for. She never been so glad to have skipped lessons.

Guilt be damned – even if she was sure to berate herself for missing her lectures – she did not regret it. She had found Dwalin and that alone had lifted some of the grimness from Thorin's shoulders. And then had come the unexpected meeting with his brother which had all but vanished the shroud from his gaze. It was incredible.

She was happy. She truly was. Ori leaned back on the sofa, feeling the warmth of Thorin's thigh close to her own and listening to the deep baritone of his voice as he recounted one particular event which had Dwalin grumbling in disagreement and Frerin gazing at the two former dwarrows with a strange expression in his eyes. It looked to Ori almost a mixture of wistfulness and morose joy. And she marvelled at it wondering if the former prince wished he had been there or if there was something more profound which put that look in those eyes, so eerily alike Thorin's and yet softer somehow.

Thorin was all sharp cutting edges, cold determination and steel armour. Even after all this time Ori knew there was much Thorin was not telling her, much that was hidden just underneath the surface, lurking on the fringes of the spoken, in the lingering looks and the defiant squaring of his shoulders. But his brother seemed to her like an entirely different kind of person. There was a light dancing in his gaze, dim and weak, but present nonetheless, and it had something innocent in it. He seemed almost vulnerable. And it was startling to see them, so similar and yet so profoundly different, one speaking and the other silently listening, swallowing every word, observing his older sibling with admiration and sadness in the same gaze.

Dwalin's bout of laughter suddenly dragged Ori from her thread of thoughts and she heard him exclaim

“Yes, that lad had always been a troublemaker! I think only Glóin had been blind to it.”

Ori realised they were talking about Gimli and a nagging thought which she had had for a while pushed its way to the forefront of her mind. It was something Bilbo had mentioned when they had spoken on Skype some weeks before, comparing historical facts and Ori learning of the events which had taken place after her death, chiefly the War of the Ring.

“Hadn't Gimli taken part in that quest, during the War?” she suddenly piped in and Dwalin stopped mid-sentence nodding

“The Fellowship of the Ring.” he said “He fought in Rohan and Gondor and was amongst those who charged on the Black Gates.”

Thorin's eyebrows shot up and Dwalin explained in his curt manner the events which had transpired in the last year of the Third Age. The quest to destroy the One Ring, the betrayal of the White Wizard, the legions of orcs which had poured down on the plains of Rohan and the fields of Gondor. The Battle of Dale where Dáin had lost his life – and Ori truly itched to take notes because while in some regards Bilbo had been more thorough, his knowledge of the events that had come to pass in the North had been very fragmented. But Dwalin had been there. He had actually fought in the battle itself.

“Then the lad comes back to Erebor.” he said crossing his arms over his chest “And he brings that sprite with him! That little woodland fairy who took us captive in Mirkwood, Thranduil's son.”

“Why would Gimli do that?” she asked in outrage, feeling her eyebrows shoot up while she registered Thorin's expression turn into a scowl.

While her opinion on the Elven race in itself was not tinged with hatred she _did_ remember the Elf in question.

“They were friends, the lad said.” Dwalin spat “Bah! Friends with an Elf!”

“With _that_ particular Elf.” Ori said, feeling her lip curl in displeasure.

“Isn't he the one who took Thorin's sword.” she spat with a tinge of rightful irritation and Dwalin nodded angrily while Frerin merely observed them with curiosity.

She truly couldn't understand it. Gimli had been a very strong-willed dwarf, but she had always thought him a loyal one. That he would consort with an Elf who had locked up the Company – who had locked up his father – and would had have them rot in those dungeons forever had Bilbo not freed them. Ori couldn't understand it.

“He returned it.” Thorin suddenly spoke, his voice flat and she turned her head to look at him.

“On Ravenhill.” he continued, and Ori swallowed “He gave me back my sword”

Thorin's face was expressionless, but she saw his hands grip the edge of the sofa with a white-knuckled grip. And her hand gripped Thorin's in turn, even as his fingers were buried in the fabric of the sofa. She could feel the tense muscles and the sharp bones almost digging in her palm.

“I had wondered how you got it back.” the former warrior all but whispered and there was an edge to his voice that made the memories of that terrible day spring vividly in her mind's eye and her grip tightened.

Thorin's fingers uncurled and his larger hand engulfed her own, their fingers twining. Ori focused on the touch, closing her eyes and willing the sight of blood and snow, the clang of steel against steel, the lifeless face of her King, willing it all away, willing all those horrible memories away. She never liked recalling them – that day had been something Ori would have wished never to repeat even if fate had been cruel in the end to Ori, bringing more bloodshed, more battles - but remembering the Battle of the Five Armies when Thorin was there, sitting by her side, alive, was all the worse. Because the pain she had felt on that day made sense.

Ori had not known why it had hurt so much. But now she did. She did.

She gripped his hand with all the strength she possessed, pushing the memories away, remembering that they were here, sitting in Dwalin's and Frerin's living-room, alive. They were all alive.

 _He_ was alive.

She opened her eyes and saw Thorin eyeing her with a tinge of pain in his otherwise unreadable expression and she gave him a small smile, squeezing his hand before she looked back at the other two inhabitants of the room. Frerin was petting the dog with a sad look in his eyes that told her Dwalin had not skipped the events which had taken place during that terrible battle. And Dwalin...

Dwalin was staring at them most strangely.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Breaking Down” by Florence + The Machine.


	27. Out in bold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath: quiet and words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over a month! I am terrible, and I apologise but real life is more intense now that uni has started and I find myself balancing between economical analysis diagrams and fanfiction which results in me drawing diagrams about maximising productivity in writing fanfics and similar counterproductive activities where I'm neither writing nor studying... :p 
> 
> That being a heartfelt apology I give you the fluffiest thing I have ever written and hope it will be a sufficient compensation for your endless patience. :)
> 
> I also think I should point out that we're nearing the end of this fic - I'm roughly planning something around five to maximum ten more chapters to wrap it all up.

The door clicked closed, plunging the hallway in a silence which was soon broken by the sound of dog paws on the tiled floor. Barkith ran across the room, winding around Dwalin's legs and nudging the back of his calf with her muzzle. He chuckled at her antics, scratching her behind her ears while he looked at Frerin who was leaning against the kitchen doorway with a pensive expression on his face.

“You alright?” Dwalin asked him and the other man nodded, giving him a small smile.

He put his hands in his jeans pockets and looked at the ceiling for a long moment in which their dog continued to seek Dwalin's affections with her large brown eyes and eager licking of his hand.

“I'm a bit shocked, I guess.” Frerin told him at last, the corner of his lips rising ever so slightly as he lowered his head and looked at Dwalin with his bright blue eyes.

“But why didn't you call me or text me? Or something...” there was no recrimination on Frerin's tone, just curiosity and Dwalin eyed him sheepishly.

He knew why he hadn't told Frerin anything until he had seen Thorin - until he had made sure his old friend was back to his normal self. As ugly as the precaution had been Dwalin had not wanted to risk Frerin. The memory of Thorin's madness had never left Dwalin. He could still picture it with such clarity - standing at sword-point and gazing into his King's feverish eyes, the lifetime of friendship being the only thing which had stayed Thorin's hand from killing Dwalin. It had been awful to walk away from the throne room, to be entirely helpless in the wake of the Dragon sickness - to see the dwarf he had respected and loved like a brother sink so low. Become a menace. No, no matter how much he had known Frerin had been missing his older brother, Dwalin had needed to make sure Thorin was not threat. There was nothing in the world which would make him gamble Frerin's safety.

“What is it?” Frerin's voice drew him back to the small hallway of their apartment and Dwalin grimaced slightly before shaking his head.

“Nothing.” he told him and Frerin raised a blond eyebrow at that.

“I don't believe you.” he told him with a shade of cheek, but there was concern in his blue eyes and Dwalin crossed the small distance between the front door and the kitchen.

“It's nothing really.” he told him, pressing a kiss to the other man's lips and he felt Frerin's arms circle his waist, before he told him “I was just worried.”

And the look a of understanding which dawned on Frerin's face told Dwalin there was no need for further explanation. Dwalin had not withheld anything in his tales after all, no matter how much he would have wished some things had never taken place and the other man was intelligent enough to put two and two together.

Frerin's voice broke the silence again.

“He's different from how I remember him” he told him “And still he's the same dwarf.”

Frerin shook his head lightly, his eyebrows knitted in the lightest of frowns saying

“It's strange.”

“He didn't have the lightest of lives.” Dwalin said gravely, then lowering his eyes “None of us did”

Frerin didn't say anything and Dwalin was glad for it. He had no need for pity, he had always carried his burdens and those of whomever had the courage to share theirs with him – like Thorin had, if only ever so little.

Dwalin heaved a sigh. Frerin was right, Thorin was not the same dwarf. And not just different from the young Prince who had led them at the Battle of Azanulbizar, earning his appellative and an unwanted kingship.

No, Thorin had grown more different. Less _..._ Less _burdened_ , perhaps? It the scarce hours they had spent together Dwalin had seen him brood, but he had also seen him smile and laugh and be at ease with Ori and Dwalin – and even Frerin, in spite of the shock of seeing his long-lost brother back - in a way he had not been since Dwalin himself had been but a small dwarfling. And even then there had been Thorin's wistful eastward glances which had made him seem the picture of the bereavement of their kin.

But not now, not any more.

“He _is_ different.” Dwalin told him with no little bemusement as he pondered on just how changed Thorin was “I have never seen him like this.”

“But we all are, aren't we?” Frerin asked, cocking his head to the side and smiling wistfully “You're not the same dwarf I used to play my lute with, after all.”

“No, I'm not. We have all changed.” Dwalin admitted, nodding before he added with a smile of his own “Thorin being happy is a good change.”

“It is.” Frerin said and then with a grin “Although I have never imagined Thorin falling in love. He has always seemed carved from stone.”

Dwalin blinked.

“In love?” his voice was flat as Frerin's words registered.

“Well yes, I'm pretty sure he is... _oh_ , you didn't notice, did you?” he asked him, widening his blue eyes.

“Notice what?” Dwalin asked gruffly, although a thought he had had for most of the evening nagged at the back of his mind, insisting to reach his consciousness.

“Ori and him, of course.” Frerin said with one of his rare impish grins.

And suddenly all the interactions Dwalin had witnessed that afternoon clicked into place. It _made_ sense, outlandish as it was - Thorin and _Ori_? Of all people? They had barely ever acknowledged each other in the past and, if anything, Dwalin would have thought that given the way Thorin had behaved the Dwarven King's heart had been taken by a certain hobbit...

But he had been obviously wrong on that account, the evidence supporting it was certainly conclusive - they _had_ been holding hands now that he thought of it. Still Dwalin was unable to fathom it. It was such an unexpected turn of events that it made the fact they had reacquainted with Thorin and Ori just a few hours before pale in comparison.

Dwalin didn't realise he had been shaking his head until he saw Frerin's bemused frown and the other man asked him cautiously

“You don't approve?” Frerin's fingers were toying with the rolled hem of Dwalin's sleeve above his elbow.

“No... I mean, _yes_. I... I never expected it, that is.” Dwalin replied, his voice deflating towards the end, then, gathering his wits he told Frerin firmly “If they are happy, I'm happy.”

And in the end it came to that. He _was_ confused, but it was not his place to judge his friend – his _King -_ for his choices, nor their mousy former scribe – besides, Ori was anything but mousy wielding a war-hammer, he recalled fondly.

“That's good.” Frerin said, leaning towards him with a warm smile on his lips “Because I do like you happy, you know that?”

Dwalin huffed a chuckle just as Frerin decided to close the distance between them, pressing his lips against his and Dwalin's reply was lost to the warmth of the thin but strong body pressed against his own. He was happy.

 

A car sped by, the rumble of the engine growing fainter as it disappeared behind a street corner. Harrow was quiet on that particular evening, the late hour and the cold winter air emptying the streets of all but those who needed to be out of their respective homes. Ori exhaled, watching her breaths condensate in puffs of white that glowed under the yellow light of the street-lamps. The air she breathed was cold and the struggle to keep pace with Thorin's long-legged strides made her feel slightly dizzy as too much oxygen coursed through her body – Ori blamed her busy schedule for the lack of exercise she had in the past year with a small grimace.

Thorin was deep in thought, all but marching towards their home and she glanced in his direction, wondering if he was all right.

Ever since they had left the apartment Dwalin and Frerin shared he had barely acknowledged her, his blue eyes gazing into distance as the maudlinness which had crept on him at the turn of the conversation, hours prior, had made itself more and more pronounced. Ori was genuinely angry with herself for having brought up the topic, but she hadn't imagined that asking about Gimli would have made the conversation spiral towards the reminiscences of _that_ day.

Of the day Ori had lost everything without even knowing she had.

It had been a strange realisation, the one Ori had had that evening – creeping up on her unexpectedly, and yet she had found nothing startling in it. It had been nothing more than reacquainting herself with the old ache which had followed Ori through the decades which had stretched bleak between that accursed winter day and those last days spent buried alive in the halls of their ancestor. The ache which had been so difficult to understand in the past but which made sense after the events which had come to pass in the past months of Ori's current life.

Sighing quietly she fidgeted with the hem of her mittens, casting a sideways glance at Thorin. He _was_ alive and it was all that mattered, even if he was presently glowering at the empty street ahead, no doubt lost in the throes of his darker thoughts. She wished she could banish them, but after having observed him for the past year Ori had the nagging suspicion that it was his past which gnawed at him most of the time. And that was something she could do little about.

It was a defeating thought, when she allowed herself to ponder it. Especially since he never spoke about it. He hoarded his innermost thoughts behind the thickest walls, always tiptoeing, almost as if he were afraid of saying the wrong thing to her.

But she did the same, didn't she?

Ori inhaled a lungful of cold air. She spent most of the time fretting about the way her thoughts would be received, afraid to blurt something silly and entirely out of place, like she was wont to do when she spoke without thinking.

She wanted to ask him what was troubling him while they hurried through Harrow and towards their home, but the bitter taste of hypocrisy held her tongue, even though she wished nothing but to do something, anything as long as it wiped away the glower from his expression and summoned a smile – that smile which would light up his whole face, deepening the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, or one of his boyish grins where his eyes would sparkle with the most concealed streak of mischief.

But _anything_ wouldn't do. She looked at him again, biting the corner of her lip. The night before – had it only been twenty-four hours?- Ori had tried to distract him rather than confronting the problem and in the end it had only left her empty and dry inside, feeling helpless in the wake of the cracks which were showing in him, deeper with every passing day. Perhaps they had always been there and she had now got close enough to see – or perhaps it was something new, something she was unaware of. Something which the reunion with Dwalin and the discovery of his brother's rebirth had put on hiatus until Ori had put her foot in her mouth turning the conversation to the day Thorin had died.

She didn't know and she couldn't choose which would be worse. But in the end it didn't matter. She had to do something regardless.

Ori inhaled deeply.

“Thorin what is the matter?” she asked him, aware that it would have been better to wait to get home – they were almost there after all – but she had waited long enough.

He turned his head in her direction, his eyebrows furrowed in bemusement and Ori lowered her eyes for a moment, wondering how to put without seeming too invasive – she _did_ respect his privacy. She slowed her pace and Thorin shortened his strides and she saw with the corner of her eyes that his head was still turned in her direction.

“You're not happy.” she told him, her eyes glued on her booted feet which now strolled down the tarmac.

And then her mouth got the better of her

“I mean, you found Mister Dwalin and your brother, but you look, well, _sad._ And it makes me wonder – and worry and I don't really understand, but I want to...” she blurted out, marvelling at her bluntness, but at the same time knowing that it was the absolute truth

She couldn't understand Thorin's reaction. He wasn't happy to have his sibling back – he should be, he _had_ been, but it had taken less than an hour to dull his startled elation and wrap him back up in his morose mood. And mixed with her need to understand was the sting of envy - Ori knew _she_ would be happy had she been given the same chance, to have at least one of her siblings back, if only for a moment. But this was about Thorin. Thorin who had become too important to Ori for her to be able to ignore the crease between his eyebrows.

He had not yet replied and his prolonged silence made her lift her eyes from the pavement. His shoulders were slightly slumped and he was gazing wistfully at the dark street ahead, his footsteps loud and Ori's fingers clutched the woollen fabric of her mittens. Had she crossed a line? Had she said something wrong?

Maybe all this notion of facing problems head-first was harebrained after all? She had always noticed his mood shifts but she had never openly acknowledged them, let alone called him out on one. A thin slippery coil of unease twisted around her stomach and she bit her lip with more force as they approached a zebra crossing and made their way across the street.

Ori heard him heave a sigh, a white puff of condensation hovering for a moment before his face. Then, reaching the pavement on the other side of the street he stopped, lowering his head slightly so he looked at her with an expression that was too complex to be dubbed.

“Ori, I...” he began, his voice rough from having been silent for so long, then he cleared his throat and continued in his rich baritone “I _am_ glad my brother is back.”

He paused, breathing through his nose and locking his eyes with hers.

“In fact I cannot describe what it means for me to know Frerin is alive.” he admitted “I just... I really _can't_.”

He was scrambling for words, his frown growing deeper before he quietly said

“I had never _hoped_.” and his voice had something raw in it that made Ori's heart lurch inside her chest.

She took a step closer, grabbing his gloved hands with her mitten-clad ones.

“Thorin...” she began.

“I am not _sad_.” he told her, the adjective coming out in a drawl which was accompanied by a small grimace which almost made Ori snort in amusement, before he added “I was merely thinking about the past.”

“You do that a lot, don't you?” she asked under her breath, but it came out too wry and in spite of his earnest expression Thorin cocked an eyebrow.

A blush crept on her cheeks.

“You're hardly one to speak.” he told her drily and Ori felt the corners of her lips quirk in spite of the heavy thoughts she had been entertaining only a heartbeat before.

“I concede you this point.” she muttered, half hid her face in the large folds of her woollen scarf while she felt the light shake of a wobbly chuckle resounding in her throat as her mind desperately latched onto the entirely inappropriate humour of the situation.

And it seemed she wasn't the only one, because only a moment later Thorin asked

“Do you now?” in a haughty drawl that was betrayed by the corners of his lips lifting in amusement.

And Ori felt a tentative grin pull at her lips while he shook his head. He gave her a small but genuine smile as he disentangled his hands from hers and sneaked his arms around her waist to pull her to his chest.

His head inched closer to hers, their breaths mingling a puff of condensation. Thorin touched his forehead to hers, unmoving and they stayed like that for the longest time. Two more cars and what sounded like a motorcycle passed on the road behind her before Thorin's head retracted and he looked at her with his blue eyes glistening with the reflection of the street-lamps.

“Thank you.” he said, breaking the silence with earnestness in his voice while his eyes bored into hers.

Ori frowned.

“What for?” she asked him, confused.

“Everything, in truth.” he replied “Without you I would have never found Frerin, nor any of the others, Dwalin, Balin, Bilbo...”

“We found Balin together and meeting Bilbo was not my doing...” she argued but Thorin interrupted her

“Nonsense. I wouldn't have gone to that conference without you.” he told her.

“Well, I'm glad we did.” she replied with a smile.

“So am I.” he said, before pressing his lips on hers before he added more quietly “Like I'm glad for your patience in putting up with me.”

“I happen to like the latter.” she replied matching the note of wryness of his tone, before she seriously asked “You know that, right?”

She could feel his chuckle reverberate through him as he held her close, his neck bent so his head hovered above hers

“Yes, I gathered as much, irrational as it may be.” he rebutted, the lightness of his tone belying a faint trail of something underneath – a sadness that reverberated too much with defeat – and it made her hands clutch tighter at the fabric of his coat.

“It's not irrational at all.” she rebutted, taking half a step back and looking at him sternly, her tone harder than she had intended it to be.

“I love you Thorin. There is nothing irrational about me wanting to be around you.” she said, with a vehement shake of her head “Even when you don't speak for the whole evening or when you look like you carry the weigh to of the world on your shoulders. Or when you look about to bite my head off for no reason, like that time...”

Her voice trailed as she saw him looking at her frozen in the spot. Then he blinked twice.

“You love me?” he asked her slowly, his voice tethering between confusion and disbelief.

“Yes.” she replied in a small voice, smiling in spite of the large knot of apprehension in the pit of her stomach and the blush which was burning on her cheeks “I... I love you.”

And suddenly his mouth was descending on hers without warning, capturing her lips in a kiss that wiped away the world from her perception, leaving nothing but the warmth of his breath on her skin and the loud pounding of her heartbeats barrelling through her chest with the same speed as his own. So loud. So close.

There was nothing but Thorin and his lips, chapped form the cold but soft and demanding, and Ori gave in sneaking her hands to the back of his neck, pulling him closer and tangling in the short hair at the nape of his head. It lasted an eternity or a heartbeat, she could not tell, but when they pulled apart it was to Thorin's eyes looking at her as if he had never gazed upon her before and his deep baritone whispering on her skin.

“I love you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from “Hideaway” by Hudson Taylor.


	28. Missing the cracks in the pavement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Permanence and hope.

 

Inhale. Exhale. The air was cold as Thorin's chest lifted and fell with each breath, the warm cotton sheets moving in sychronicity with the rhythm of his breathing, their thick thread eerily real against his skin. Almost as if the nearly complete darkness of the bedroom were not a dream. There was the familiar weight of the duvet pressing above him and Ori’s body softly curled into his side, fingers splayed in slumber over his stomach. So much detail, for his mind to conjure - too much perhaps.

And yet Thorin kept waiting for the alarm clock to ring. To pierce through the nearly perfect silence of the winter night - through the layers of his consciousness, ripping him out of his reverie and thrusting him back into the bleak darkness of the early hour.

As he gazed into the dream ceiling above, patiently waiting for this lucid dream to vanish, Thorin tried to steel himself for the weariness that would inevitably descend upon him - it always did in the wake of panic, and he had been boneless with exhaustion when Ori had switched the light off on the bedside table.

She shifted lightly in her sleep, turning to her side and Thorin followed her motion, draping an arm across her waist as he leaned his chest against her back, feeling the steady beating of her heartbeats against his skin, the ridge of her spine against his breastbone. The faint orange light filtering through the window made him blink, and if he hadn't  _known_ he couldn't be anything but asleep, Thorin would have thought himself more awake than he had been moments before, even the lightest cobwebs of sleep shredded away by the street-light’s merciless glow behind the curtain.

But it was impossible.

That Ori would call him in the middle of the morning - when she should be in class, and the notion of her skipping a whole morning of class was beyond preposterous - that she would do so to tell him she had found Dwalin and several hours later he would be not only reunited with his oldest friend, but also with his long-lost brother - with  _Frerin -_ could be nothing but a by-product of his slumbering mind.

Thorin felt his head shake minutely against the pillow. No, it was unthinkable. Absurd.

Ori telling him she loved him, blurting it out in the middle of a reprimand – giving him  _exactly_ what he wanted, and when had Thorin ever got what he had sought? No, it belonged to the realm of dreams and wishful thinking. He was asleep and his alarm clock  _should_ go off at some point. And all would be back to the way it had been. 

And it was good, it was better than it had been in a long time, uniquely so, and Thorin couldn’t complain. But if a small part of him wished his reverie were more than just that, he put it to silence. He had been given more than he deserved.

He waited for the alarm clock to go off.

Two hours later it did.

Thorin’s head snapped to his right as the blaring noise from his bedside table commanded his attention and he twisted his body under the covers, stretching his arm to turn the device off and fending off a frown that threatened to burst on his forehead. On autopilot, his legs followed and moments later his bare feet were on the cold bedroom floor, goosebumps rising on his exposed skin.

He had not woken up. There had been no jolt back into reality. But this was not a dream, couldn’t be, so was he clinging to the remnants of his dream? Has his mind drifted from slumber to wakefulness without him noticing?

_Could it had been real?_

He walked out of the bedroom and went through the rest of the morning routine without thinking – not  _daring_ to think – while his limbs moved on their own accord. Training, shower, breakfast. 

Dawn tinged the sky outside the window a dull grey and he leaned his palms against the kitchen counter while he waited for the kettle to boil. He felt the smooth surface under his skin, the weight of his upper body on his wrists, muscles blissfully tingling in the wake of having been recently put to good use, the cold air on his still damp short hair. And it was all  _too_ lifelike.

He exhaled sharply. Too lifelike to be a dream.

The kettle rumbled nearby and with a deep breath Thorin straightened his back, just as it clicked loudly, switching itself off. Breathing in and breathing out, he began picking at the wires of his thoughts, twisting them together, one by one. It was impossible. And yet it was hard to deny. He poured the water over the teabag, while his mind yielded, bit by bit.

Thorin sat down on the kitchen chair, dazed, overwhelmed, pushed beyond the known geography of the expected into the unpredictable wilderness. It was a sensation he was familiar with – for all that he hated it. But never before had he been pushed into an unknown made of things he would have  _wanted_ had he dared doing so.

He shook his head, staring at the floor-tiles. Dwalin was back,  _Frerin_ was back. And Ori... Ori  _loved_ him. 

Ori loved him.

And that was perhaps the most difficult to grasp. To believe. Because if he did, then all his foreboding thoughts – all his fears – had been misplaced.

It would change everything.

Dwarves loved only once, and beyond the human bodies which Ori and him donned in this life, their souls were dwarven. If Ori loved him, if he hadn't  _dreamed_ her blurting out the words in a string of other sentences – merely a tile in a larger reproach – then there was a  _future_ to be looking forward to. Not the permanence of a single heartbeat, the chaining of present moments which dragged the eye back to what had been and to what was, but never, never allowing him to hope for anything beyond the now.

If yesterday had truly happened - and it  _had,_ it had, the scorching heat of tea in his mouth was  _too real_ \- then Thorin was at loss. Utterly at loss. Having a future, an indefinite amount of it, was a luxury he had never had. Not since that day, a long lifetime ago, when flames had licked their way into the very stone of his Mountain. 

Thorin didn’t know what to do, what to think. What to  _feel._

Footsteps echoed in the silent house and his musings were interrupted by the soft padding of Ori’s slipper-clad feet.

“Good morning.” she said, with a yawn, coppery blond hair in utter disarray. She was smiling happily and Thorin looked at her for a long moment, before curving his own lips into a smile.

“Good morning.”

  
  


Ori sat on their sofa, feeling the last waves of laughter dissolve into giggles. Her lips remained relaxed in a smile and she glanced at the men sitting in the living room. The afternoon was quickly fading into the grey twilight of an early spring evening and Ori rose from her seat to switch the light on. As she made her way to the front of the living room she glanced at the tableau.

Thorin was talking with his brother, gesticulating with controlled movements while the blond man nodded with rapt attention, glancing every now and then towards Dwalin who was silently smiling behind a cup of tea which looked much too delicate in his grasp. Turning the light-switch on she went and pulled the curtains on the bay window closed, while she tried to shake off the sudden feeling of surrealism which was washing over her.

Two months ago it would have been a sight nearly impossible to even imagine and yet here they were. It was strange to think how much their life had changed since. How one particular day - eventful from the very first minute of it until the moment her eyelids had dropped shut - had rearranged the fabric of reality in their small world. Thorin and Ori had gone from being an island - albeit one that occasionally communicated with Balin and Bilbo, but still separate from the rest of the world, of their current families, nonetheless – to having Frerin and Dwalin around at least once a week, if not more often. It felt almost like having a proper family.

Not that Janet lacked anything, Ori thought softly. She loved the woman fiercely, but it was not quite the same. Janet, just like Thorin’s sister – Harriet - didn’t know the truth after all. Couldn’t know.  It had been a tacit agreement to keep their secret from anyone who had not been reborn themselves, and Ori had never even considered telling her mother she was not her  _first_ mother. Not her first family. Dori and Nori would always be her true family, irreplaceable. 

She sat back down on her spot on the sofa, lightly bumping her knee against Thorin’s, while she tried not to be too maudlin. He gave her a small smile, echoed warmly in his blue eyes before returning to his discussion with his brother.

Ori poured herself another cup of tea while she sighed lightly, wondering if her hopes of having Nori and Dori back would ever come true. While she knew the odds of them being reborn were growing higher and higher, the world was a big place and amongst the billions which inhabited it, it would be hard to find them, impossible even. And yet she like to imagine them somewhere, living their new lives and probably wondering about her - or one another if they weren’t together.

A light nudge to her arm drew her away from her musings and she turned her head towards the bearded bear of a former dwarf who was currently looking at her inquisitively and she realised he must had spoken too her. She felt a light blush creep on her cheeks as Dwalin told her

“Thought we had lost you there, lass.” grinning.

Ori shook her head, smiling apologetically against the rim of her teacup.

“Sorry, I got wrapped up in my thoughts a bit.” she told him sheepishly “It happens.”

“At least yer not brooding.” he rebutted, glancing in to her left where Thorin was shaking his head at something Frerin had said, but with a faint curve of amusement on his lips. Her lips quirked.

“He’s not so bad.” she told Dwalin, then added “Most of the time, at least.”

Dwalin chortled and she felt her own smile grew.

Jokes aside, it was the truth. Thorin had been less brooding than before.  Ever since that day in January when  _everything_ had happened, things had gotten better. 

There were still days when Thorin looked like the weight of the universe lay on his broad shoulders, and the edge of desperation danced behind his expression, but those days seemed to come more seldom than they used to. It was as if some part of his burden had been taken from him. And it made Ori feel happy with a relief that permeated her whole mind – for all that he had never spoken out loud about what had plagued his mind. 

Not openly at least. 

But after that January night when she had had the courage to ask, he had slowly began telling her more, worries and remorses trickling drop by drop. And lightening the frown on his brow, smoothing the lines of worry, one by one.

When Ori dragged her eyes form the amber liquid at the bottom of her cup and looked at the former warrior, there was humour in Dwalin’s eye. But beneath it, there was understanding, and she nodded minutely, acknowledging that he had been around for long time, longer than Ori had been alive, even summing up both her lives. And it that time he had always been at his King’s side, weathering the worst moments in both their lifetimes together. Shoulder to shoulder. Shield-brothers and truest of friends. Family of choice.

It was good to have him back, he was another rock for Thorin to lean on, silently, never showing his weaknesses, but present nonetheless. With his matter-of-factly attitude, blunt and pragmatic, but never crossing the invisible line of Thorin’s boundaries, Dwalin was the friend Thorin had sorely missed in the solitude of this life.

And then there was Frerin, who had been wary around Thorin, shy and tentative at first. But the two of them had eventually managed to bridge the distance two tortured lifetimes had wedged between them. And learned how to be brothers once again. It was fresh still, and Frerin’s open expression did nothing to hide the scars, the broken pieces he was made of, glued together haphazardly. Ori could see it plainly and it made the blond man see frail, almost delicate. But she knew better. Ori knew real frailty hid behind smirks and biting comments, behind stone-faced expressions and the callousness of a warrior, behind indifference and superiority. For all his deceiving looks, Frerin was stronger than he seemed. And it was just what Thorin had needed. His brother. His family.

Peace.

Not all the darkness was gone – perhaps it never would – but Ori was grateful nonetheless. To see Thorin smile was a prize onto itself.

  
  


The sun was shining through his study window, white beams reflecting on the surface of his monitor, and casting the shadow of his own silhouette against it. The white sheet of the spreadsheet he was working on difficult to discern and he knew he should get up form his chair and push the curtains closed to fend off the rare sunlight, but a thought had him pinned him down onto his seat, unmoving, unseeing.

He had been compiling an expenses report he _should_ have finished at work - but it was due tomorrow and in spite of his policy of not bringing work at home, sometimes he had to make an exception – when he was reminded of another day, of that horrible afternoon in January when he had been gripped by panic so hard, Ori had been able to tell something had been wrong when she had returned home in the evening. And just as he had recalled it, Thorin had suddenly realised he had not had another panic attack ever since.

The thought was startling. Deeply so. Because that had been _months_ ago. Months. And the notion that he had had gone so long without his body betraying him, shutting down in the wake of an overwhelming avalanche of thoughts. It was unsettling. Odd.

Thorin had been living with it for years now – ever since he had left the Army and his mind had refused to heal along with his body, pink skin forming were wounds once had been, but his mind remaining the same. Broken, jagged pieces twisting into him when he thought about things he should not be thinking about, nightmares that haunted him. Often, even if time had tamed them down and it had been veritably long since he had last woken up screaming.

Panic had been a steady, albeit unwanted companion even before Thorin had realised his name was not John, his dreams and delusions were memories, and he had witnessed far worse than Iraq, far worse. To be rid of it, even temporarily, was strange. And Thorin didn’t understand.

He had wanted to be rid of it, but he had long given up on it, and the past months should have exacerbated it, not made it better. He had not avoided thinking about the past. Quite the contrary in fact. Frerin’s and Dwalin’s presence had forced him to linger on it far more than he had done since Ori had entered his life, recounting it, dwelling on past events, explaining them while she took notes.

And yet, for all that he thought about his sister, his nephews, his people, panic had not reared its head since the day before he had found his brother, his precious _nadadith._ It seemed impossible, and yet it was true. But how was it possible?

Pushing his palms against the desk Thorin managed to drag his body up from the chair. A hand rose instinctively to run his fingers through his short hair while he shook his head, disoriented. It was good, but how was it possible?

Thorin had not realised he was moving until he found himself descending the stairs, head still spinning with the racing thoughts and the undercurrent of hope – because months without panic was good, it was more than good, more than he would have allowed himself to want. And hadn't that become a theme lately.

He trod over the stair that had not been creaking since November and he thought of Ori. Who loved him. Who wasn't going anywhere – who proved Harriet wrong and how a petty part of him wanted to tell his older sister just so, to gloat because for once she had been _wrong._ But he knew objectively, he couldn't do so without explaining her things which were better kept hidden.

He stopped at the foot of the stairs, remembering how that day in November he had been foolishly avoiding Ori, terrified by the thought of losing her – terrified of what had been growing inside him, the the first stirrings of what had grown to be love – and he recalled how there had been panic on that day too. When she had told him Bilbo would be coming to London his breaths had been slammed out of him, guilt choking him. Guilt and memories. And it made him wonder what was different now? Why was he able to remember and not feel the earth part under his feet ready to swallow him, crush his bones into fine dust?

How was it possible?

“Thorin?” Ori’s voice startled him and he realised his fingers were gripping the banister like a vice.

“Are you alright?” she asked him, standing in the living-room’s doorway, a notebook clutched in one hand while the other gripped a pen. Her whole body posed to move, but hesitation keeping her in place, because she never pushed him, always giving him the room for his own burdens to unfold before he reached for her. And he knew he did, more than before, sharing some of that darkness with her.

Still Thorin opened his mouth to tell her he was fine, the instinct to placate her worry stronger than the desire to share. And yet as the words rose from his throat, he realised he truly  _was_ fine. Startled, puzzled to a deep befuddlement, yes, but  _because he was fine._ Because he had not dealt with panic for months. Because for some unfathomable reason his mind was allowing him the grace of recalling the past with its due dose of pain and guilt, without rebelling against him. Because Thorin could speak of his sister, of his  _nephews_ without feeling his lungs constrict and darkness creep at the edge of his vision. His dreams were another matter entirely, still dark, too dark to be pleasant and he knew sometimes they woke Ori up. But panic. Panic had not been there. Not since January. And the thought seemed impossible.

Was he beginning to heal, at last? Something must had shown on his face because the small frown on Ori’s freckled forehead turned into bemusement.

“I’m fine.” he said, crossing the distance between them and leaning forward to press a kiss on her mouth. 

“Are you sure?” she asked and he nodded as her hands sneaked around him, notebook digging into his back.

Then she leaned into him and he deepened the kiss. Because things had gotten better, better than he had ever dared dreaming. And Ori was there, she loved him, she was there. She would  _be_ there. For good.

He tightened his hold on her.

“I love you Ori.”

  
  


The morning air smelled of grass and damp leaves. They glistened with dew in the shy sunlight where the greyness of the long shadows did not shield them from the autumn sun. Ori sat on the stairs behind the house, leaning her elbows on the cold concrete while she took in the peaceful sight of the early Monday morning. Goosebumps travelled up her arms under the thin cotton of her shirt but she paid it no mind.

It was nice to sit there, listening to the quiet sounds of their neighbourhood slowly waking up and Ori wondered if sometimes Thorin did just that rather than spending the first hour of the day in the basement chasing away whatever darkness lingered in the corners of his mind – fewer as the months had rolled on.

She had long got used to his alarm clock going off in the most ungodly hour before dawn and some mornings, like this one, she would get up too, indulging in a moment of leisure before the day truly began and with it the endless amount of work and studying her classes required of her. And some mornings she had quietly observed him as he squared his jaw and pushed his muscles with a determination that had reminded her of skirmishes with orcs and goblins – of the burdened moments before they had burst out of the Mountain and charged into battle.

And it had made her wonder.

An involuntary sigh escaped her lips, traces of sleep still lingering in it and it quickly morphed into a yawn. It was far too early to be mulling on the mystery that was Thorin. And yet there was a clarity to be found in the sheer emptiness of the mind - a blackboard wiped clan by slumber – which made her suppress her ingrained urge to let it be for the time being – to be patient – and she began dissecting her own thoughts with the same painstaking precision she applied to everything else.

The sun rose imperceptibly higher in the sky while she thought about the eight months which had passed since they had found Dwalin and Frerin. About the tension in Thorin's shoulders easing inch by inch. About all that  _still_ remained chained to the lines which remained in the wake of his frowns. About the hard look he would wear sometimes – and always when he thought she wasn't looking. But above it all she recalled those mornings when she would watch him train in the basement and somehow she knew he was not just keeping himself in shape. 

But those morning had grown fewer and far in between and Ori felt a smile curve her lips.

The muscles in her forearms where softly protesting from being kept in the same position and Ori moved, straightening her back until she placed her arms on her knees, toying idly with the fabric of her trousers. Eight months had passed and the days had tied into a seamless string woven from many a good day, smiles and bright blue eyes which etched themselves in the fabric of her memories, tightly bound to a happiness which simmered warmly in her chest. Eights months of calm certainty, of building a life together, learning to just be.

Because Ori knew that whatever it was that had haunted him, that still sometimes trickled into the fabric of his dreams, twisting them into nightmares she would have to shake him awake from could be nothing she would not be prepared to live with – to love. She loved every imperfection in him, loved him  _more_ for them – because they were uniquely  _him_ .

Suddenly the doorbell rang, the sound faintly carried through the open back-door and Ori stopped in her mental track, frowning. As the sound died down she had already got up from where she was sitting and she strode inside the hose. Putting her mug down on the kitchen table as she passed, she wondered who could it be this early in the morning. It was utterly strange.

Her feet crossed the grey carpet in the hallway and she unlocked the front door, pulling it open a moment later. She took in the sight of the person standing in their doorway and promptly froze.

Long ginger hair, a constellation a freckles and pair of green eyes that glinted with the same emotion behind an unmistakable smirk.

“Hello, Ori.” a drawl and a tilting accent which left Ori breathless for a heartbeat, blinking. _Impossible._

And then her limbs were catching on the sight of her erstwhile brother and she was throwing herself in a bone-crushing embrace as she squealed

“Nori!”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can't believe I actually managed to finish this fic. It has been quite a journey and even though it has been hard sometimes, my muse has been uncooperative and real life has got in the way, I'm honestly glad I wrote it.  
> Thank you to all of you who have been around for the past eight months, those who dutifully commented on nearly every chapter, those who left that one but heartfelt comment, those who merely left a kudo. I love you all. This fic would have never seen completion without your support. You are the best.
> 
> Needless to say, I plan to write more in this universe. I did leave you with a cliffhanger of sorts after all. 
> 
> Chapter title taken from “Hometown” by Adele.


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